


Macchiato

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, background gencio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13813206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: Overwatch takes an extended mission undercover in a coffee shop in the heart of Seattle, a prime location to stake out their current targets. McCree's not one for the big city or fancy coffee, but the work needs doing, and it's not like anyone outside Overwatch will get it done. It should be a straightforward, if tedious, mission.Then Hanzo Shimada complicates things by walking in, unaware, for want of a simple mocha.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Macchiato 玛奇朵](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878372) by [PsychoHildegarde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoHildegarde/pseuds/PsychoHildegarde)



> macchiato: from the Italian macchiare, ‘stain, mark.’
> 
> It's like a coffee shop AU, but without the AU part and with a LOT of "because I said so" hand-waving to make up for it.

“Have a good one,” McCree says for what is probably the fortieth time today. He gives a charming smile to the young woman on the other side of the counter, who smiles back politely as she takes her card, then departs for the other end of the counter. After her, the line is finally, blissfully empty, after thirty minutes of nonstop movement and conversation. McCree heaves a sigh and rubs his tired eyes with one hand.

He is good at many things. He’s damn near unmatched with a gun, excellent at stealth and recon, and can keep a perfect poker face in a game of cards. He can play the guitar, fix his own mechanical arm in a pinch, and down a glass of whiskey in record time. He’s good with people, friend and foe alike, and he can get almost anyone to tell him anything. He has skills that have kept him alive through circumstances that should have killed him twenty years ago, and skills that have made him many a friend during those twenty years. 

What he cannot do, apparently, is  _ customer service. _

When he had accepted this undercover mission from Winston, more than eager for a long mission for the first time since the Recall began, he hadn’t anticipated just how difficult it would be. Rumors were that some well-known Talon agents were spotted in the area, and McCree had been one of the first to sign up to track those bastards down. Apparently, however, being a barista is a lot more taxing than he could ever have predicted. 

McCree casts a quick glance around the shop. Aside from a pair in the corner, all set up with coffee and pastries, the shop is now empty. With a sigh of relief, McCree ducks behind the partition that separates the second half of the espresso bar from the rest of the café. He leans up against the side of one of the industrial-sized fridges and groans.

“This is,” he says to Lena, “the absolute worst cover we’ve ever done.”

Lena, manning the espresso machine, laughs. “Come on now, it’s not  _ that _ bad,” she says. Her nametag reads  _ Emily, _  and she’s slicked back her hair and put on a pair of chunky black glasses that make her nearly unrecognizable. Her chronal accelerator is hidden under a thick hoodie, though she still minimizes her time spent in the public eye just in case. She effortlessly snaps a paper cup off a stack by the machine, gives it a little twirl over the back of her hand, and catches it and taps it firmly down on the counter. “I definitely think there are worse things to do than this.”

“I don’t know how you like this shit.”

“I dunno, I think it’s kind of fun!” Lena flicks on the coffee grinder on the way to the fridge, throws open the door, pours milk into a stainless steel pitcher, and moves back to the machine in what seems like a single fluid movement. She sets aside the milk, fills a small espresso basket with the fresh grounds from the machine, and tamps them down with the metal press. “Besides, remember that time we had to camp out in London right after the Null Sector thing? That was way worse.”

McCree does remember. He had already been in London when the Overwatch strike team had come in, and they had all had to lay low in the city while also monitoring for any remaining Null Sector activity. It had been six days of utter boredom, with five of them crammed in a tiny, poorly-equipped safehouse while they rooted out the last of the terrorist group in the seedy underbelly of a massive city--and found nothing at all for their efforts. It had been a particularly miserable and unsatisfying mission, one nobody had been eager to repeat.

“Alright, yeah,” he admits grudgingly. “That one was worse. But this is still bad. Think I’d rather be out there with those Talon folks shootin’ at me than waitin’ for them here.”

“You’re just a baby.” Lena flicks a switch on the machine, and it gives a whir. A few seconds later, creamy espresso pours from either spout under the basket to be caught perfectly in a pair of shot glasses below. She steams the milk, grabs the shots, and pours them together in the paper cup. 

“You’re just too cheery for your own damn good.”

Lena laughs off the playful insult, snaps a lid on top of the coffee cup, and dances past McCree to take the coffee out to the front. McCree feels tired just watching her. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He casts a discreet look down at it, and sees Genji’s name. Genji has been out scouting for most of the afternoon--this must be him checking in. 

“Can you man the fort for a second?” he calls. “Gotta take this.”

“Sure thing!” comes the reply, and McCree weaves his way through the back of the café and out the door marked “employees only.” It leads into a thin, damp alleyway, separating the café from the other buildings on the street. Rain falls in a drizzle from the perpetually gray skies, which McCree learned early on is the standard in the grand city of Seattle. Yet, despite the cool rain, it manages to be uncomfortably muggy in the mid-afternoon, and he finds himself tugging his shirt collar off his neck as he answers his phone. 

“Hey,” he says. “Found anything good yet?”

“ _ Hello, McCree," _  Genji replies,  _ “and no, not quite. _ ”

“Well, damn. What’s the status?”

There is no answer for a moment. McCree peers around the corner of the building toward the main street running in front of the café. It is a narrow road, but vehicles still crawl through in a single-file line, their drivers desperately searching for any minute area that could be called a parking space. Across the street is a tall, sleek building of steel and glass, towering toward the sky amongst a labyrinth of hard-light railways and bridges winding through Seattle. A holographic sign marks the building as Pacific Sound Biotech, Inc., the site of their primary investigation. Somewhere on their board of directors is at least one businessperson funneling money from the company and into Talon’s coffers, and Winston has expressed concern that a biotechnology company in particular might have ties to the terrorist organization. This little coffee shop operation put them right across the street, where they could easily observe some of the more obvious activity and keep an eye on the many employees who stopped by on their breaks. And with the number of coffee shops in Seattle bordering on unreasonable, there’s no reason for there to be any suspicion about another one cropping up right in front of the company. 

McCree had almost not come back, when the Recall went out and the beacon beckoned him back. The way Overwatch went those years ago, it had no business being alive again, not like it was. But work like this was why he returned, eventually--nobody else was going to the real work to take down groups like Talon, and that left it up to him and whoever else was willing. 

Maybe it would be a little more tolerable, however, if the shop had been a bar. 

“ _ Sorry,"  _ Genji finally says. “ _ Thought I was going to lose track of him. Had to move." _

“One of the board members?”

“ _ Yes. Donovan. He left early for a meeting in another part of town, so I followed him, but I have not seen anything suspicious as of yet. _ ” Genji sighs. “ _ I suppose I could not expect him to be handing out briefcases of money in the open." _

“Course not. That’d make our jobs too easy.”

“ _ Of course. _ ” 

McCree watches a young, blue-haired woman exit through the glass doors of Pacific Sound Biotech building. He’s seen her around a few times now and can’t decide if she’s a secretary or an intern. Either way, most likely underpaid and too stressed to add embezzling to her list of problems. “So we got anything at all yet?”

“ _ No. He has a lot of meetings today, as far as I can tell, but it mostly seems to be with other people from the company. Right now, it’s just lunch with who I think is his wife, going by the rings. No leads on him, nor from anything else this morning. _ ”

“Great. Sure am glad to be doin’ the work that  _ really  _ matters again.”

Genji laughs. “ _ I know the feeling. _ ”

Silence fall between them again for a moment. McCree watches another young adult enter the PSB building, looking just as harried as the girl who left earlier.

“ _ Do you remember going undercover in Blackwatch? _ ” Genji asks. “ _ The hours we spent doing missions just like this? _ ”

McCree laughs dryly. “Yeah. Used to drive me mad when we had to sit around all day. Well, I can’t say I’m sitting around right now, but you get the drift.” He rubs his hand along his lower back, which only aches a little now, but will be agonizing by the end of the day. Middle age makes itself known in the most agitating of ways.

“ _ Mei was saying you didn’t care for making coffee." _

“The coffee’s fine. It’s the people who want the coffee who drive me ‘round the bend.”

From around the corner, McCree hears the delicate chime of the bell above the café door signalling another customer--or several. He bites back a groan. “Goddamn. I better let you go before someone yells at me. You know some middle-aged lady got all snippy with me yesterday because it took me two seconds to get to her?”

“ _ Good luck, my friend,"  _ Genji says with a laugh. " _Perhaps the next ones will be our embezzling terrorists after all, and we can leave just as soon as we catch them._ ”

“I doubt it.”

Genji’s laughs. “ _ Perhaps not. I will be back soon. Try not to tear the place down before I return." _

“I’ll do my best.”

McCree slips his phone back into his pocket, takes a deep breath to prepare himself, and makes his way back into the café. Once he switches places at the register with Lena, he’s immediately greeted by a couple, each 15 years his senior, looked more than vaguely displeased. 

“Finally,” the woman on the left remarks. “I thought you’d just forgotten you had customers!”

McCree bites back a groan and puts on his fakest smile. “Sorry ‘bout that, folks. What can I do for you?”

 

\--

 

Another two hours crawl by uneventfully. 

A couple of suit-wearing gentleman from the Pacific Sound company cross the street and occupy a large table along the wall nearest McCree. He listens to their conversation for awhile, pretending to clean the counters four times as an excuse to sit by the register and eavesdrop. That, too, turns out to be a bust; the conversation is mostly complaints about pulling long hours (just how exhausting can it be to sit around counting your money all day, McCree wonders) and a scandalous story about one of them having an affair that the others find far too amusing. McCree tries to pick apart the conversation just in case they might be talking in code, but it becomes quickly apparent that this group isn’t quite bright enough for that, so he listens to them halfheartedly with one ear while trying to entertain himself.

Customer service is either constant hell or utter boredom. Nothing in-between. 

He uses some of the downtime to restock the sugars and stir sticks--and good god, just how many stir sticks could people  _ go _ through in a day?--and as he’s setting it all back out, the bell over the door chimes for the first time in a half-hour. Although he doesn’t relish the job, at least this will be something to finally break the monotony. 

He makes his way back to the register and leans on the counter, the picture of friendliness for the next customer--but there is no one there quite yet. He scans the sitting space, searching for the newcomer, and his eyes alight on a man setting up in the furthest corner table. 

He looks to be about McCree’s age, with dark hair pulled into a bun and shaved on the sides and a wide-collared coat that seems snug across his broad shoulders. He sets down a large instrument case, which McCree spends a moment examining, unable to decide if it’s carrying a cello or a weapon. It’s most likely the former, but he’s seen the latter. He’ll have to keep an eye on that. 

But, if the man is planning anything deadly with the case, he does not act it out immediately. He arranges his belongings at the table, making sure to take up enough space that nobody will try to join him, before he makes his way to the counter. His gaze stays on his phone, but he looks up when he reaches McCree, and McCree sucks in a breath.

From a distance, he hasn’t realized just how  _ handsome  _ the stranger was. Up close, he’s all angular features with sharp, dark eyes and a well-manicured goatee. Small piercings glint in his ears and across the bridge of his nose, but the sash tying back his hair is decorated with a muted fish-scale pattern that reminds McCree of old Asian artworks; together, they create a clash of old and modern trappings, an intriguing dichotomy. He wonders where the man’s from, and if there’s a chance he’ll find out.

He manages to pull himself together just in time, and plasters a friendly smile on his face. “Howdy,” he says, in the smoothest voice he can muster. “What can I get started for you?”

The man seems distracted, glancing a couple of times between his phone again and the menu behind McCree. “Just a small mocha, please,” he says, and McCree is surprised by how deep his voice is, low and a little rough and softly accented. 

“Sure thing. That it?”

“Yes. Thank you.” 

McCree turns away briefly to ring up the purchase. Though perfectly polite, the stranger seems distracted, which slightly dampens McCree’s enthusiasm. 

“Well then,” he says, handing the man his change. The tips of his fingers brush the man’s palm, warm through the thin cloth of his fingerless gloves. “Give me just a minute and I’ll have that ready.”

He nods and steps back from the counter, wandering down toward the pick-up bar a few feet away. Between them is the espresso machine on McCree’s side of the counter, blocked but visible through a pane of glass running the counter’s length. McCree, though he would normally pass off the order to Lena to let her deal with it, nudges her away so he can make it himself. Lena giggles but lets him take over.

“Let me know when you mess it up and you need me to wingman for you,” she teases, and ducks into the back before McCree can retort. 

McCree doesn’t prefer working on the bar, but he can do it (with a little help from the cheat-sheet someone helpfully pinned up by the machine), and he takes his time on this. Chocolate in the cup first, then shots in the machine, then the milk. As he steams the milk carefully in the steel pitcher, he looks over the top of the machine at the waiting stranger, who is disinterestedly reading a nearby billboard of upcoming local events. 

“So,” McCree says pleasantly. “What brings you out here today? Look like you got a bit of a set-up over there.”

He blinks out of his reverie to look back at McCree. “Oh. Work, mostly.”

“You a musician?”

“At times.”

“What’s work for you, then?”

“Various things. I freelance.”

“That must be interesting.”

He hums in response. McCree tries not to huff. So much for making conversation. 

He pours the fresh espresso into the cup with the chocolate, adds a little milk, and stirs the whole thing vigorously, wary of the chocolate sludge that forms at the bottom of a poorly-made drink. Can’t have the handsome stranger disliking his coffee. 

“I do a bit of music, too,” he says conversationally.

“Oh?”

“Guitar. Since I was a kid. Not professional or nothin’.” McCree mixes in the last of the milk, tops the whole thing with the last bit of foam in the pitcher, and pops a lid on the cup with a flourish. “But it keeps me busy.”

The man regards him thoughtfully for a moment. “I can see that,” he says. He smiles, just a little, and glances toward the cup in front of McCree. “You seem like you would be good with your hands.”

McCree pauses, just for a fraction of a section, as he processes what was just said to him. The man is looking back at his phone again, but there’s still a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips. McCree smothers the grin he can feel trying to overtake his face. 

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks. He sets the coffee down between them, but lets his hand linger on it just a moment. “Something to eat? A phone number?”

The man narrows his eyes at first, confused, then seems to realize just what McCree is asking. Then, to McCree’s surprise, he smirks.

“Perhaps another day . . .” he starts, then hesitates as he glances slightly downward. “Ah.  _ James _ . We will see.”  He reaches for his coffee and swiftly tugs it out from under McCree’s hand, then departs for his table. 

McCree huffs a silent, disbelieving laugh to himself as he watches the man go. He won’t fool himself thinking he’ll ever see this guy again, but hell if he isn’t a bright spot in an otherwise dull mission. 

Even if he now thinks McCree’s real name is James. 

He casts a few discreet glances at the man over the next twenty minutes or so, unable to resist stealing a glimpse here and there while he has the chance. 

Behind him, he hears the back door open and shut quickly. McCree takes a quick tally in his head--Lena’s still here, and Angela and Mei never left the shop in the first place, so that means--

“Welcome back, Genji,” he says, turning to face the cyborg as he enters. 

Genji is dressed in layers, jeans and boots and a hoodie that covers all of his cybernetics. The scars and plating on his neck and face are still a little visible, but in this day and age, nobody will look twice at him in passing. He makes a face at McCree. 

“This rain is impossible,” he says, and on examination, McCree can see that Genji’s hoodie is soaked with water. “How do people live like this?”

“Couldn’t tell ya. Give me the desert and the sun any day.” 

“Nepal could be cold, and monsoon season is its own story, but at least it was not  _ always _ wet.” Genji shakes his head. “At least I’m waterproof, mostly. Did anything happen here while I was gone?”

“No, not really,” McCree says, at the same time Lena interjects, “Someone fancies one of our customers.”

Genji’s gaze slides from Lena to McCree, questioning. McCree laughs uncomfortably. “I don’t  _ fancy _ him,” he says. “Just had a handsome fella come through is all. You’d agree with  me.”

“Oh? Just how handsome?”

“He’s still here if you wanna see for yourself.”

Genji laughs, but he does move to take a look. McCree leans on the counter as Genji passes him. “In the corner,” McCree says as Genji peers around the edge of the partition. “Didn’t catch his name. Should’ve asked, but he seemed like he had a bit on his mind.”

Genji seems to spend a long time looking out into the lobby. He then suddenly jerks back out of view and stands stock-still.

“What, did he see ya?” McCree asks. “It’s fine, I doubt he realized--”

“McCree,” Genji says, his voice the flat, level tone of one forcing a certain level of calm, “that is my brother.”

“Pardon?”

“The man you are talking about. That is Hanzo. That is my brother.”

 

\--

 

Hanzo stays in the coffee shop for two hours, until afternoon bleeds into evening. He does not seem to be a hurry to leave, nor does it even seem like he is in their shop for any particular reason; he simply sits at his table, alternating between working on a data pad and looking out the window as he sips his coffee. If he is even aware that Genji is in the same building, mere feet away, he shows no sign of it. If Genji had not said something, McCree would have just assumed Hanzo to be another regular customer, getting his work done from the comfort of a squashy chair--a little sharper around the edges than the average customer, perhaps, but nonetheless no more worrisome than any other. 

The crowds of customers come and go, but finally begin to wane around 6:30, not long before closing. Genji disappeared not two minutes after realizing Hanzo was there, and has not come back since. McCree putters around the café between customers, tidying the lobby and watching Hanzo from the corner of his eye. Occasionally, he catches Hanzo watching him--never for long, but enough to be noticed. Hanzo says nothing, but there’s a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. McCree would feel more accomplished for catching the handsome man’s attention if he hadn’t learned his true identity. 

Everyone in Overwatch knew about Genji and his past with his brother. He hadn’t told them the whole story at first when he arrived all those years ago on Angela’s stretcher, but the details had come out over time. Genji had been in Blackwatch, so McCree remembers those first couple of years particularly well: the months of rehabilitation, constant surgeries and treatments, uncontrollable rage and self-loathing that often manifested in violent outbursts and bitter self-isolation. Genji had gotten a little better over his years with Blackwatch, but even by the time he up and left without a word, he hadn’t been at peace. 

But Genji’s also mentioned his brother in the last couple of months with Overwatch, and his attitude seems to have taken a complete turn--enough to say now that he  _ forgives  _ his brother for what happened. McCree’s not sure how he feels, himself, but he does feel justified in not trusting Hanzo all that much for the time being. 

A little bit before they close, McCree takes a smoke break in the alley--he doesn’t dare let anyone even  _ see _ him with a cigarillo, with how stringent the anti-smoking laws are around here--and comes back to find both Genji and Angela in the back area. 

“I spoke with Winston,” Genji is saying as McCree shrugs off his jacket. “He said it is my decision. As long as he isn’t interfering with the mission in some way, we do not have to do anything, so until he  _ does _ do something . . .”

Angela makes an unhappy noise. “I don’t like it,” she says. “It’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I do not know. If he was looking for me, he could have found me by now. And I do not think he would align himself with Talon or its associates, at least not knowingly, so I do not think he is here to interfere.”

“Passin’ through, maybe?” McCree suggests. 

Genji and Angela both look back at him, just now acknowledging his presence. Genji shrugs wearily. “I do not know,” he says again. “It is possible. The last time I saw him was in Japan, but that was several months ago. I have not heard from him since.”

McCree hazards a glance back into the lobby. Hanzo is still at the table, tapping idly at his tablet; it looks like he’s playing a game. Hardly the image of a threatening ex- _ yakuza _ member. 

“Well,” he says, turning back to Genji, “looks like it’s really on you, then. Can’t say I’m a big fan of a guy who nearly murdered you way back when, myself, but it’s not my choice. You wanna talk to him?” Beside him, he sees Angela give a tiny nod of agreement; he can imagine she cares even less for Hanzo, based on the work she had to put into fixing his handiwork. 

Genji doesn’t answer for a long moment. Eventually, he says, “I bear no anger for what he did. Not anymore. The reasons behind his actions were . . . complicated.”

He sighs shortly. “I talked with my master, too. He believes I should talk to Hanzo. I am inclined to agree, but this is so strange. I did not expect to see him here.”

“How could you?” Angela asks. 

McCree blows out a heavy breath, considering for a moment. “Tell you what,” he says. “We’re closin’ up shop, so he’s gotta head out one way or another. Why don’t you try to catch him on his way out, and we’ll stand by in case somethin’ goes wrong. If you really wanna mend that bridge, you should go. We’ll deal with whatever fallout later.”

“I . . . yes. You are right. Thank you.”

McCree claps him on the shoulder, then turns to go clean out the lobby. Angela exchanges a look with him, equal parts worry and doubt. 

He makes his way across the room, broom in hand, and informs Hanzo that he’s sorry to kick him out into the rain, but they’re closing up soon for the night. Hanzo quietly packs up his things and is out of the café in under a minute, leaving the table just as clean as he found it. McCree continues sweeping, but he watches Hanzo as he departs, headed out the front door and into the chilly Seattle evening. 

It only takes a few seconds for Genji to round the corner of the building and intercept him. 

McCree can’t hear anything that is happening, but he’s pretty good at reading people, and he can get a good idea just watching through the window. Hanzo doesn’t seem to recognize Genji, at first, but then recoils in shock. Genji says something, his own posture stiff but calm, hands resting loosely in the pocket of his hoodie. McCree isn’t fooled by it--he knows Genji would have a handful of shuriken out before Hanzo could blink, if he were feeling threatened. But Hanzo is pretty skilled in combat too, if Genji’s recounts are anything to go by.

McCree desperately hopes this doesn’t end in them trying to kill each other on the street. 

Several minutes pass. Hanzo looks like he becomes angrier as the conversation continues, but he does not move an inch in Genji’s direction. Genji frowns deeply, looking concerned, but nothing occurs. Their voices raise loud enough to be briefly heard through the windows, but McCree’s Japanese isn’t good enough to tell what’s being said, and the argument seems to cease just as quickly as it began. 

Finally, Genji moves to the door. The bell jingles merrily as he pushes it open with one arm and holds it there, waiting expectantly. Hanzo stares at him for a long moment, then finally steps inside.

McCree lets them pass before he goes to lock the door. “Doin’ okay?” he murmurs to Genji.

“For a given definition of ‘okay,’” Genji replies dryly. 

Hanzo, heedless that Genji has paused, sets back up at the table he was at before in the corner. He sits awkwardly, every movement stiff and reluctant. Genji sighs softly. “Would you be so kind as to make some tea?” he asks McCree. 

“Sure thing. The green?”

“Please. It might be some time.” 

McCree does as asked, steeping some green tea in the nice ceramic mugs used for the dine-in customers. When he goes to drop off the cups at the table, Genji murmurs, “ _ Arigatou _ ,” and takes the cup between both hands. Hanzo does not so much as acknowledge McCree’s presence or that of the cup placed beside him.

McCree uncomfortably dismisses himself, checks that all the doors are locked, and hides away in the stockroom. 

The stockroom for their little coffee shop functions as a place to store extra bags of beans, technically, but its main purpose is a meeting space for the team in the field. Lena, Angela, Mei, and Lúcio are all gathered, each looking either worried or curious as they watch a monitor with camera feeds of the store. The feed is currently focused on the corner of the shop where Genji and Hanzo are talking. 

“So that’s the infamous Hanzo, huh?” Lúcio says, leaning over a chair to peer at the screen. 

“Apparently,” McCree replies. “They seemed okay when I left ‘em, for better or worse.”

“Doesn’t really look like I imagined. Sorta thought he’d be a lot . . . I dunno. Angry-looking.”

“Are we sure this is okay?” Lena asks. “With what happened and all?”

“Well, if they wanted to kill each other, they’d’ve done it by now.” Lena doesn’t look happy with the answer, and McCree continues, “Yeah, I know, it’s weird. But so’s their whole history. If Genji wants to give him a chance, well, I trust  _ him, _ if not the other fella.”

McCree feels weird staring down the two while they have what must be an intensely personal conversation, so he eventually wanders off with most of the others to finish cleaning up. Angela is the only one who remains, quietly observing for another ten minutes until she, too, turns away and pulls up her tablet to work. 

By the time they’re done, everyone’s feeling a little antsy, ready to go back to their dingy apartments and sleep off the day. However, although nearly an hour has passed, a quick glance at the screen reveals that the brothers are still talking. The agreement is unanimous that they need to leave, to go back to their shared apartments and eat and sleep before the next day. McCree waves good-bye to the girls as they leave first, taking the back exit, and he and Lúcio make their way through the front of the café.

“You comin’ with us, Genj?” asks Lúcio as they pass the corner table. For the first time in an hour, Genji and Hanzo break conversation, and they look up simultaneously as though startled by the others. 

“Oh,” Genji says guiltily. “I--no, I do not think so. Soon.”

“You sure? We don’t wanna leave you here alone.”

“It is fine,” Genji assures. “We--”

“I am not going to attack him,” Hanzo interjects darkly, addressing his half-empty cup, “if that is what you are concerned about.”

A beat of silence passes. “Well,” McCree says. “Can’t blame a fella for worryin’.”

“It is fine,” Genji says again. “Go home, both of you. I will be back shortly.”

“Gotta be honest, Genji, I’d feel better if you came back with us. I can wait around a bit.”

Hanzo glances up. His gaze meets McCree’s for no more than a second, then flickers away. McCree doesn’t know him well enough to know if it’s guilt or not. 

Genji finally sighs, shoulders slouching in resignation. “Alright,” he agrees, “if you must, but please wait outside. Our conversation is not over.”

Reluctantly, McCree nods, and he and Lúcio step out of the café and into the brisk Seattle evening. Without the sun’s warmth, muddled as it was by perpetual cloud cover, the night is now cool and crisp--and still raining. McCree grumbles as he pulls his hat down over his eyes and leans against the wall. Beside him, Lúcio chuckles.

It is not much longer before the door opens again and the brothers step out. The lights shut off behind them automatically, and the door locks for what will hopefully be the final time tonight. Hanzo doesn’t spare so much as a glance in anyone’s direction before he departs, striding off down the sidewalk into the night. Genji looks to McCree and Lúcio, gives a slight nod of acknowledgement, and starts off in the opposite direction, toward their apartments. 

“Everything all right there?” McCree asks. “Where’s he headed off to?”

“He has a room nearby. He will be in the city awhile, it seems.”

“What for?”

“I would rather not discuss my brother for now, if that is alright,” Genji says with a heavy sigh. “I am sorry. I realize you are concerned, but it has been a long evening. I need to think.”

“Uh. Sure.”

“You gonna be alright?” Lúcio asks, jogging to catch up to Genji’s long-legged strides.

“Yes. I just need some time. I do not believe Hanzo is a threat in any way, but seeing him again after all this time is . . .” Genji trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. Lúcio pats him once on the back.

“I am glad to see him, though,” Genji adds after they having been walking in silence for a long moment. “He has changed.”

“Has he?” McCree says doubtfully. Other than a little flirting earlier that afternoon, he hadn’t seen much to indicate Hanzo was all that reformed. 

“I know he may not look it, but he has.” Genji stares ahead, gaze fixed on the path lit by the streetlights overhead. “How much, I cannot say. But I am happy to see it.”

Lúcio seems to process this for a long moment. At the end, he shrugs and gives a smile. “Well alright,” he says. “Guess we can’t argue with that. Gotta hold onto your family, right?”

McCree is less certain, but he lets the matter drop.

Their apartment is a tiny thing: one bedroom and bathroom, a small kitchen with no more than two countertops and five square feet of standing space, and a living room that takes up the remainder of the space. Lúcio had graciously claimed the couch on the first evening here two nights ago, insisting that he didn’t mind and that the others should get the two beds crammed into the one bedroom. After a quick dinner and a short report about the day’s events, McCree flops into bed. He reeks of coffee, but the bed is softer than his desire to shower is strong, and he falls into a dead sleep. 

 

\--

 

McCree’s scheduled the next morning for a solo stake-out shift in front of Pacific Sound Biotech. He wakes early before the others, dresses, and departs, striking out into the city.

Even at six in the morning, Seattle is already buzzing, its citizens waking and caffeinating themselves before their long office days. Despite the city’s impressive transit system, streets are still clogged by vehicles with headlights that cut through the early morning mist like eerie, glowing eyes. McCree opts to walk. 

He finds breakfast in a little diner nestled between a couple of larger restaurants on either side. He finds a window seat that gives him a favorable view of the front of the biotech building and takes his time working through breakfast: a plate of biscuits and gravy that doesn’t deserve to be called such and two cups of mediocre coffee. Despite the relatively low quality of the coffee compared to what they make at the shop, there’s some comfort in its slightly burnt taste. And call him old-fashioned, but espresso will never compare to a simple cup of black coffee. 

Two hours of surveillance reveals little. He watches a few employees arrive by car and bus and foot, none outwardly more suspicious than the other. Donovan, Genji’s target from the day before, shows up five minutes before 8AM in a bespoke suit and dark naval peacoat. Several others in lab coats and clothes of significantly lesser quality show up earlier--the actual breadwinners of the company, McCree concludes, showing up in time to do the work that actually gets everyone paid. He wonders if any of them are aware of the possibility that their work is being used to fund Talon. 

Probably not. 

His thoughts drift back to the café, and to the man he met last night. Hanzo Shimada. Hard to believe that a man that stupidly pretty was a former brother-murdering crime lord. It’s a bit unfair that someone that handsome and that sharp of a flirt had to be so untouchable.

Then again, McCree thinks as he sips his coffee, it’s not like he’s so innocent, either. The only reason he went to Overwatch in the first place is because of his own dirty past, and the guilt from it is what drove him back here again. If he can haul his ass up and do something good with his life, there has to be hope for the rest of humanity. 

Unless Hanzo’s come back and murdered Genji proper in the time McCree’s spent eating breakfast. Hopefully not.

He departs the diner after leaving a hefty tip for the harried-looking waitress and takes a walk around the area, which also reveals little. He peers through the glass doors to the PSB building as he passes, looking into a wide, white-walled lobby with a few groups of scattered folks chatting or waiting. He has a smoke on a bench, watching people filter in and out of the building, and briefly follows a small group of lab-coat-wearing individuals on a mid-morning break until they all disperse for different locations. 

This distant surveillance isn’t going to reveal much, at the rate they’re going. They’ll have to start being more aggressive if they want to uncover any information at all, which could go very badly without an international government to back them up anymore. 

Finally, after a few hours of doing what amounts to nothing at all, McCree makes his way back to the coffee shop. The quaint rectangular sign outside the door announces it to be the Common Grounds café, a pun that never fails to make McCree grimace when he is forced to acknowledge it. The shop is quiet, only a couple of scattered customers to be found. Mei is at the counter, dutifully wiping down the surface. When the bell rings above the door, signalling McCree’s arrival, Mei looks up immediately, and her face breaks out in a smile.

“There you are!” she says. “We were waiting for you to come back. Everyone else is having a meeting.”

“What for?” McCree asks as he rounds the corner, shedding his coat and hat on the way. “Somethin’ happen?”

“Well, sort of.” Mei’s cheerful smile quickly dims, and she drops her voice to a low murmur. “Genji’s brother is back. I stayed out here in case of customers, but I think they were talking about having him work with us.”

McCree pauses. “Is that so.”

Mei nods. Her hands go to fidget with the neck strap on her apron, which is just a bit too long for her. “I don’t know if I like it,” she says. “What he did was terrible. Even if Genji is okay with it, it just doesn’t feel right.”

“I feel ya, sweetpea. But I guess we should hear him out before we decide. I’ll go see what’s happening.” 

When McCree steps into the back room, he finds the rest of the team, sans Mei, gathered again around the folding table that takes up most of the tiny space. Winston is speaking over the computer, but he pauses as McCree enters. 

“Ah, Agent McCree,” he says. “Welcome back. Did you find anything?”

“Not a thing.” McCree’s gaze slides over to the obvious newcomer in their arrangement. Hanzo is perched at the side of the table, sitting stiffly with his hands folded on the tabletop. He glances briefly in McCree’s direction, then returns his attention to the screen. “Mind, uh, catchin’ me up here?”

“Yes, well. After Genji explained yesterday’s . . . events, he mentioned something else that was interesting,” Winston says. He adjusts his glasses, a rather prim movement for a 7-foot gorilla. “Apparently, Mr. Shimada may be able to help us.”

McCree looks to Hanzo for an explanation. Hanzo looks at a point somewhere on the far wall, past an uncertain-looking Lúcio’s shoulder. “I came to the city on work,” he says stiffly. “There are a couple of bounties in the area that I aim to collect. One of them, apparently, works in the same company that you investigating, and the dossier suggests they work for Talon.”

“You’re a mercenary, then,” McCree says. “So that’s what ‘freelancing’ means.”

Hanzo lifts an eyebrow very slightly, but does not respond.

“In any case,” Winston interrupts, “it seems Mr. Shimada’s already done a little research into the company. Between that and his skills, I think we could use him for this assignment, but . . .” 

He trails off. McCree glances around the room and sees a variety of uncomfortable, suspicious faces--except for Genji who, even with his face hidden behind his mask, is clearly determined. 

“I want him to be here,” he says firmly. “I asked him to help us, and he has agreed. I trust him. That should be enough.”

“You can’t blame us for being worried, luv,” Lena says gently, and Genji cuts her off with a sharp shake of his head. 

“I appreciate your concern, but my past with my brother is  _ my _ problem, not anyone else’s.”

Silence falls across the table. Angela looks like she wants to say something, but presses her lips into a thin line. Lúcio looks between Genji and Hanzo, conflicted. Hanzo’s gaze slides down to the table, where his hands are folded tightly atop each other; he seems unaffected, but the white in his knuckles betrays his tension. 

McCree is struck by a sudden image: himself, twenty years ago, sitting at a table with his wrists in cuffs and his fists clenched so tight that his nails cut his palms while a different group of people stared him down.

McCree blows out a sigh. “Alright now,” he says. “Think we all know better than to throw out help when it’s offered. And as for what happened before, well, I wouldn’t even be standin’ here if we didn’t think folks could change. Think we oughta give him a chance.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Hanzo look up at him in surprise. The others, too, seem a little surprised. Lena’s expression softens with a hint of guilt. Genji’s shoulders sag with relief, the  _ thank you _ unspoken but obvious.

“Alright then,” Winston says, tapping away at his tablet. “I guess we’ll keep him on. Welcome to the team, Mr. Shimada, at least for the time being.”

The rest of the conversation passes with its usual brusque efficiency: wrapping up recent events (none), finalizing schedules, discussing tactics. At the end, the others stand and disperse, making their way to other parts of the café or otherwise finding their assignments. McCree stands up to go, but he sees that Hanzo hasn’t moved a muscle. “You comin’, Shimada?”

Hanzo glances up at him from the corner of his eye. For a moment, he says nothing at all, and McCree wonders if he’s somehow done something wrong. Then Hanzo asks, “Why did you tell them to have me stay?”

McCree stops up short at the unexpected question. “Whaddya mean?”

“You knew Genji years ago in Overwatch. He considers you a close friend. You clearly know what happened. Why would you have me stay?”

McCree pauses. “Well,” he says with a one-shouldered shrug, “you seem like you’re being sincere. And Genji trusts you. Can’t say anyone’s going to give you free run of our space while you’re here, but if you’re really tryin’, then that’s all that matters.”

“That is awfully kind of you.” Hanzo says it like he expects McCree to follow up with a demand. McCree shrugs again. 

“You mentioned . . .” Hanzo hesitates, then starts again. “You mentioned that you would not be here, if not for a second chance.”

McCree doesn’t answer for a long moment. “That’s a long story I’m not gonna tell right now,” he eventually says. “But what I will say is that some of the folks here showed me a kindness when I got started, and I needed that. I’m not sayin’ I won’t keep an eye on you, but if you’re serious about turnin’ yourself around and helping out, then I won’t send you away, either.”

“That is . . . fair. More than fair.”

Hanzo finally stands, and McCree figures the conversation is over. Then Hanzo clears his throat uncomfortably. “I believe I owe you an apology as well.”

McCree blinks. “For what?”

“Yesterday. I do not want you to think that I will be making any more advances if we are working together.”

McCree mentally runs through the events of the day before, finally settling on the brief--though still enjoyable--conversation they had in the afternoon. “What, the flirting?” he says. “Hell, you don’t need to apologize for that. No one ever got hurt over a little flirting.”

Hanzo’s frown deepens. “Nonetheless,” he says. “I had expected not to return here, so I thought nothing of it at the time. Now is different.”

“Well, alright, I guess, but I’m tellin’ you, no harm done. Not like we knew each other at the time, anyway.”

“And I imagine you feel differently about it knowing who I am now.”

Ah. There’s the crux of the issue. McCree rubs absently at his beard and says, “Well, a little, I guess. Still ain’t as big a deal as you’re making it, though. Ain’t many folks who can resist my charms.”

Hanzo, to his surprise, rolls his eyes. “Yes, that is clearly what happened,” he says, and he almost sounds amused.

“Well, there must’ve been somethin’ you liked.” McCree grins lazily. 

Hanzo ignores this as he gathers his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He starts past McCree, but pauses in the doorway.

“Your name is not actually James, is it.”

McCree barks a laugh. “Nah,” he replies. Hanzo’s expression is much less amused. “The name’s Jesse, actually. Jesse McCree. Call me one or the other, it don’t matter much.”

Hanzo nods once. “McCree, then. Good day.” And with that, he departs. 

McCree follows him out until they reach the counter, and from there he watches Hanzo stride across the shop and out into the dreary Seattle afternoon. He disappears quickly around the corner and is gone, leaving the café behind to instead perform some information-gathering on his own.

“So?” Mei asks, abandoning her thorough cleaning of the espresso machine to look out after Hanzo. “What did they say? Is he staying?”

McCree lets out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he says, reaching past Mei for his apron on the hook, with the  _ James _ nametag still attached to the front. “Yeah, I think we’ll be seein’ a lot more of him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hanzo had expected Genji to kill him.

He stares down at his cell phone as he stands on the sidewalk, only half-aware of the world around him. People bustle past him, uninterested in another stranger’s turmoil, fixated on their own schedules and problems. A text is open on the screen from an unnamed number: _You can reach me here from now on. -Genji_

Hanzo had expected a knife across his throat: revenge collected eleven years late, Genji’s patience and forgiveness having reached their inevitable end. Instead, he has a text.

The text has been there since yesterday afternoon, but Hanzo has not yet saved the number into his contacts. He tried, once, but had gotten halfway through typing Genji’s name before his hand began to shake and he could not finish. He had intentionally given Genji his number when he asked for this purpose, yet something now stops him from saving it. It is hardly the most urgent of matters, yet the fact that he cannot bring himself to take care of it may soon drive him mad.

He lifts his gaze from his phone to the building just across the street, nestled on the corner: a little brick coffee shop, its design at odds with the more modern buildings around it yet fitting in perfectly with the overall cobbled-together aesthetic of Seattle. The hanging sign declares it the Common Grounds Café. Terribly-named, but two days ago, all Hanzo had been looking for was a sugary coffee and a couple of hours to himself, and it had seemed like a cozy spot for it. He, like the rest of Seattle’s citizens, had no reason to expect it was actually a front for an undercover anti-terrorist operation--nor that his only brother would be there. Of the literal hundreds of coffee shops in the city, they had somehow ended up in the same one, at the same moment in time.

It should be a good thing. It is, if Hanzo is being perfectly honest with himself. But there is much to be dealt with that he was not yet prepared for, and he does not know how to begin.

“Christ, dude, get out of the way,” someone spits. A shoulder bumps rudely into his, and a young man glares at him as he passes on the sidewalk.

Already on-edge, Hanzo reacts without thinking, snapping out his free hand to seize the man by the front of his hoodie. The man yelps, stumbling back to face Hanzo’s angry snarl, eyes wide. His hands scrabble at Hanzo’s, too weak to loosen his white-knuckled grip.

“Shit, dude, sorry!” he bleats, and Hanzo realizes what he’s done. Alarmed by his own response, he releases the young man’s coat, and the man hurries away, muttering disbelieving yet passive-aggressive nonsense. Another passerby looks at Hanzo oddly, but continues on her way. The moment passes, as does the sense of danger, and as the rush of adrenaline fades, shame takes its place.

Hanzo looks down at his phone again. _I believe there is still good in you,_ Genji had said. Hanzo doubts that there is much good in a man who nearly threw a stranger into the street for bumping into him.

He puts the phone away and takes a deep, grounding breath. No point in staring at a text when he should be talking to the man in question.

The bell above the door jingles to announce his presence as he steps into the shop. Hanzo quickly scans the cozy lobby and finds a couple of customers scattered about, all engrossed in computers or books. His preferred table--nestled in the corner, where he can sit with his back to the wall with a view of the room and out the window-- is empty. No one is at the counter, but Hanzo can hear voices laughing in the little nook at the back as he approaches. Just around the partition stand two people: the short, round-faced Mei, and the much taller, broad-shouldered figure with his back to Hanzo. Mei notices him first, and her smile immediately dims. The other turns to look, and Hanzo recognizes McCree just as he, too, seems to lose his mirth.

“I’ll take him,” McCree says, and Mei gives an uncertain nod and turns toward a stack of bags of coffee on the counter while McCree approaches the counter. He smiles again, the picture of friendly customer service, but it is visibly strained. “Howdy. Your usual?”

Hanzo has only been here for three days, counting today, but somehow he has established a “usual.” It feels strange--normally he is never in one place long enough to visit an establishment twice. “Yes, please.”

“Sure thing.”

McCree rings up the purchase: one small mocha, Hanzo’s daily indulgence. Money changes hands. There is none of the warmth of their first interaction to be found. Not that he expects it, Hanzo supposes.

Hanzo lingers a little longer, watching as McCree tamps grounds into the espresso basket and pours milk into a pitcher. For all his complaints about making coffee, he seems comfortable in the space. “Is my brother here?”

“Nah. He’ll be here later.” McCree twists the espresso basket into the machine. He starts to say something else, a frown at the corner of his lips, then seems to think better of it and closes his mouth. Hanzo bristles anyway, brushing his fingers over his phone in his pocket.

“You drinkin’ this here?” McCree asks.

“I had planned on it.” Though Hanzo is having second thoughts now.

Before either of them can speak again, they are interrupted by the jingle of the door and a pair of customers approaching the counter. Hanzo dismisses himself to the corner table, grateful for a reason to escape the conversation.

He digs his tablet out of his bag, ostensibly to work, but finds his gaze drawn back toward the counter. The cowboy’s voice carries well across the room as he laughs and playfully banters with the new customers. Truly, with how easily he seems to charm strangers and move about the café space, there is no reason at all to suspect that he is a special-ops agent, undercover with a now-defunct international organization. Hanzo is unsure of what to think.

Strange, too, how he had been the one to vouch for Hanzo to stay. He clearly knew Genji well and knew of the brothers’ past, considered Genji a dear friend, had reasons to be distrustful of Hanzo and had voiced his concerns more than once. He had hinted at some dark past of his own, some reason for which he sympathized with Hanzo, but Hanzo could not imagine what McCree might have done that could match attempted fratricide. There had been others in that room yesterday, other characters that struck Hanzo as far more trusting and optimistic than McCree might be, who had been visibly reluctant to voice any support even with Genji’s pleading. So why McCree?

He grimaces, unable to stop himself, as he remembers the other interaction with McCree from a few days prior. It was not his fault--he had had no way of knowing who McCree, then James, really was, nor what the café’s true purpose was--but it had still been an enormous embarrassment to realize he had flirted with someone he would soon work with, someone who was Genji’s old friend. He had been in an unusually good mood the other day and, in the spirit of allowing himself something that he wanted as opposed to needed, had allowed himself a little flirting with a handsome stranger--and handsome he was, Hanzo begrudgingly admits, in some rugged, uncouth way that he should not find attractive--and thanks to some spectacularly bad luck, it had become an actual problem.

He should not be finding anyone attractive. Hanzo mentally berates himself as he realizes the turn his thoughts have taken. Finding someone pleasing to look at is hardly the worst thing he could do, shallow as it is, but it is more than he should be thinking about nonetheless. He should keep his pointless indulgences to cakes and coffees.

With a touch of shame, Hanzo turns his attention decisively to his tablet, pushing aside uncomfortable feelings with work. He has dossiers to review before he tries to collect any bounties in the coming days, and that is far more important than strange coffee-making cowboys.

A white ceramic cup enters his view and rests on the table with a gentle tap. Hanzo hazards a glance up and is surprised to see Mei beside his table.

“Here you go,” she says. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

“Thank you.”

Hanzo can see Mei still hovering in his peripheral vision, her hands knotted in the front of her apron. He keeps his gaze on his tablet as he asks, “Is there something else?”

She does not answer for a moment. Then she says, voice tight, “Are you really here just to make things better with Genji?”

Now Hanzo does look up. Mei is not a tall woman, but standing over Hanzo while he sits makes her frown seem particularly severe. Hanzo tamps down on the immediate flare of agitation.

“I came here for work,” he says coolly. “I will stay because Genji has requested it. After our business is done, I will leave.”

“And you really don’t want to hurt him again?”

“If I had wanted to hurt him, I would have done it by now, and there would have been nothing you could have done to stop me.”

Mei visibly bristles. “That's not how you get someone to like you, you know. Saying things like that.”

“It is the truth. Besides, would it truly matter? I am not here to make friends. I do not expect to earn anyone’s trust after what I did to my brother. As it stands, I did not expect even him to trust me. I am here for my work and for what little I can do to make up for what I did. Nothing more.”

Mei’s expression softens slightly, though Hanzo cannot say why. She releases her grip on her apron and smooths the front. “Well,” she says, “I think you underestimate the rest of us. Everyone here has a story, too. And you would have an easier time if you at least tried to make friends.”

Perplexed by the change in demeanor, Hanzo has no response. Mei turns to go. “For what it's worth,” she says, “Genji is happy that you are here. And if he believes you, then I believe you, too.”

Before Hanzo can decide what that means, Mei leaves, resuming her post behind the counter. He is left with only his cup of coffee steaming gently on the table beside his elbow.

He picks up the cup between both hands and takes a sip. The espresso is strong and smooth, its bitterness tempered by the sweetness of the chocolate. He closes his eyes for just a moment, letting himself indulge.

He looks down at his phone on the table, sets aside his coffee, and opens the unnamed text. He sets the number as a new contact, taps in _G-e-n_ , then stops with his finger hovering over the J.

There are only a small handful of other contacts listed. None are friends, and none are even real names. Genji’s name seems at odds among a short list of faceless, ever-changing mercenary contacts.

He frowns at it, taps _Cancel,_  and pushes his phone away.

 

\--

 

Hanzo walks the long way back to his motel after a couple of hours, following the sidewalks in a meandering route through the city. Although the area is nowhere near downtown Seattle, it feels just as busy as downtown would, the streets packed with cars and the sidewalks with bustling citizens. Though the big city is nothing new to him, and even Hanamura could be hectic in its own way despite its relatively small size, Hanzo still finds himself on edge here. He keeps his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slightly drawn up, making himself smaller as he ducks and weaves through the crowds.

He does not understand how people could live here willingly. Everything is too much--too much noise, too much color, too much light, too much humanity.

The motel is far below Hanzo’s preferences in accommodations, but it suits his purposes well enough for a place to sleep and plan his days. Places like this are far less likely to look at him strangely for coming and going at odd hours, and much easier to sneak back into while wearing blood-spattered clothes. His room is clean, or at least not visibly stained, and sparsely decorated: a queen-sized bed in crisp white linens, a flat black desk under a wide mirror, a well-worn armchair, a dark gray carpet that hides whatever filth the previous occupants may have left.

Hanzo dumps his bag into the chair and his weary body onto the bed, feeling surprisingly tired despite doing nothing yet today besides spend a few hours in public. He spends a few minutes with his face hidden in the pillowy comforter, waiting for the anxious buzzing in his head to subside, before he fetches his tablet from his bag. He already knows the work he has to do in this city, but it never hurts to review the details.

There are three bounties he plans to take in Seattle. One is nebulous, the one that may take several more days at least: a woman by the name of Meredith Corbin, one of the head scientists leading the genetic engineering department. There is no photo and no identifying details, and the company website did not list its staff. The bounty states she is wanted by a private party theft of both money and information, and the suspected murder of one of the contract owner’s partners. Black market research, Hanzo suspects, done underground without the oversight of scientific ethics boards. The details are vague, however, and the bounty goes on to request proof of dealings and proof of any Talon connections. This one, Hanzo is reluctant to admit, may have required outside help even if Corbin had not happened to be one of the names on Overwatch’s suspect list.

The other two bounties are easier, cases of simple theft with hefty rewards. One he will not address for a few more days. The other--that is for tonight.

Truthfully, it is probably beneath him, and he does not want for money, but if he does not occupy his time with something productive, he will go mad.

As he puts his tablet away, his phone buzzes on the bedside tablet. Hanzo’s heart leaps into his throat as the unnamed number flashes across the screen.

 

_From: [Unknown] 17:57  
_ _McCree says you were looking for me today._

 

Hanzo worries the inside of his lower lip, catches himself, and scowls. He types another message quickly before he can lose his agitation-induced nerve.

 

_To: [Unknown] 17:58  
_ _I was in the coffee shop for part of the day. I had other work to do, so I left before you returned._

 

Hanzo sits on his bed and waits. The next text comes quickly.

 

_From: [Unknown] 17:59  
_ _I’m sorry I missed you. I was following an adulterer around downtown to see if he was lying about the affair as a cover. He wasn’t._

 

_From: [Unknown] 17:59  
_ _I_ _think I wish he had been._

 

_To: [Unknown] 18:00  
_ _He sounds like a charming man._

 

_From: [Unknown] 18:00  
_ _He definitely needs a good punch in the mouth._

 

Hanzo chuckles, then stops, a little started by his own reaction. He cannot remember the last time he had a simple, enjoyable conversation--let alone one with his brother.

He forgets to respond to the text. His phone buzzes in his hand a minute later.

 

_From: [Unknown] 18:03  
_ _Anyway, Winston wants us to stake out a meeting of some sort tomorrow night at PSB and tail them after, see if they’re doing anything suspicious. Will you join me?_

 

That gives Hanzo pause again. He had known, of course, that at some point he would be working alongside Genji--even anticipated it, on some level, underneath a different level filled with apprehension and borderline panic--but now he is uncertain. He cannot even remember the last time they fought together--only those times they fought each other.

But there is no reason to deny this. Two of them on recon will work better than one, and he cannot deny any chance to spend time with his brother without be surrounded by the rest of Overwatch.

 

_To: [Unknown] 18:05_

_Yes, I will join you._

 

The last response Genji sends is a heart. Hanzo doesn’t know whether to smile or cringe. He does neither and sets his phone aside. Excitement and fear at the idea of a mission with his brother war within him, and he does not know which emotion will win.

He scowls at himself and forces all thoughts of tomorrow aside. Tonight, there is other work to do.

Hanzo sheds his canvas coat and hangs it beside the door, then toes off his casual boots underneath. Next to them sit his other boots, the knee-high, steel-encased pair he has owned for many years and which will aid him again tonight. He can climb walls even barefoot, and has done since he was a child, but the modified grips on his tall boots certainly make the job easier.

He unfolds one of his _gi_ from his bag, but hesitates before he can put it on. He rubs his thumb over the coarse, lightweight cotton, over the fraying edges and the embroidered pattern on the right sleeve. The _gi_ are very old, and he has changed so much of his wardrobe and appearance, but he cannot bring himself to discard them.

He wears them infrequently now, keeping them only for his work. He tells himself that they are simply what he is used to, and that wearing them only for a few hours a couple of times a week is still better than wearing them regularly.

It still feels like a personal failure when he puts it on.

He waits until night falls before he departs. He does not allow himself to look in the mirror over the desk as he passes by it to the window. He shoulders his bow and his quiver, then lifts the window open and slips out into the night. There is no time for self-pity when there is work to be done.

 

\--

 

The next day passes slowly. Hanzo does not go to the coffee shop. He forces himself to find other ways to occupy his time, venturing through Seattle instead of deliberately surrounding himself with people who hate him. He sticks to smaller neighborhoods so that he does not have to surround himself with the city’s occupants, browsing the wares of little private shops through the windows and taking in the sights.

As it draws closer to evening, time seems to drag on longer, prolonging the time he must wait until tonight’s assignment. The anxiety builds slowly, churning in his gut and tight in his shoulders. He forces down a protein bar and a cup of tea back at the motel, tasting neither, just for the sake of having something in his stomach before he works. He exercises, feeling guilty for the amount of sugary coffee he has put into his body the last few days, and his head is clearer for the workout. By the time he begins thinking in ernest about the job ahead, he almost feels capable of handling it.

Genji eventually texts him a location and a promise to meet there that night, explaining that they will meet at the site and then debrief at the coffee shop once they are finished. Hanzo dresses and departs with plenty of time to scout the area for himself, determining the best areas to perch without their targets being aware of their presence. No doubt Genji or someone else from Overwatch has already done the same thing by now, but Hanzo has just a little more faith in his own judgment than he does theirs. The meeting is to be held on one of the higher floors, and after some evaluation, Hanzo determines the best area to be a rooftop a few buildings down, far enough that they will not be immediately noticed but close enough to see with the aid of a scoping eyepiece.

Tonight, the Seattle air is crisp and cool, a breeze ruffling Hanzo’s hair and the collar of his _gi_. The night sky is miraculously free of clouds, but the lights from the city obscure the stars.  Genji arrives shortly before their agreed-upon time, deliberately scuffing his foot against the rooftop to announce his presence. Unnecessary, given that they underwent the same stealth training, but a habit Hanzo imagines he developed working around others. “Greetings, brother,” Genji says amiably. “I hope I have not kept you waiting long.”

“Not very.”

“Good.” Genji kneels beside him, peering across the way to the building. “Anything yet?”

“No. Who are we waiting for tonight?”

“Not sure. We intercepted a message regarding a meeting tonight at ten-thirty.”

“Rather late for a meeting.”

“Indeed,” Genji says grimly. “I expect we will learn something tonight.”

They wait together in silence for some time. Not long after they met, a light snaps on in a meeting room on the fifteenth floor. The blinds are half-drawn across the windows, but there is just enough visible to see the figures that gather around the table. Given the late hour, they likely do not expect anyone to see them there. There are a few faces that Hanzo can pick out from his casual recon from the last couple days, plus a couple he does not recognize. Genji points out the large, black-haired man as a Cecil Donovan, whom he dislikes on principle, and gives a few names Hanzo has not heard for the others, but has no name for the red-haired woman.

“So,” Genji starts. His tone is carefully light in the way Hanzo knows--even after over ten years--that whatever is about to be said will not make him happy. “What do you think of Overwatch?”

“Given that Overwatch has not existed in six years, very little.”

“Hanzo.”

Hanzo ignores the warning in his brother’s voice, peering out across the cityscape. He should have expected an interrogation. This is the first time he and Genji have been alone for more than a few minutes since he arrived in Seattle, and Genji never was one to be coy.

“They do not want me here,” Hanzo says eventually. “Which does not surprise me. I know little of them beyond that. It has only been a few days.”

“And you have made a point of not speaking with them, of course.”

“I do not know what you expect of me. They are not my companions.”

Genji lets out a slow, long-suffering breath. “You do not have to be unfriendly.”

“I am not being unfriendly. I am merely being professional.”

Hanzo can’t see Genji’s expression behind the sleek fiberglass mask, but he can still imagine Genji frowning, rolling his eyes. Eleven years has left a massive rift in their relationship and turned Genji into a much different man, yet there are little things between them that are comfortingly familiar. The thought causes a tightness in Hanzo’s throat, and he swallows as he looks back toward the building.

“They are more forgiving than you realize,” Genji says. “If you showed them a true kindness, they would eventually come around.”

“I am not interested in groveling for the respect of your teammates.”

“They are your teammates as well,” Genji points out. “At least for the next little while. And they respect you enough--it is the friendliness that needs work.”

Hanzo resists a scowl. To his surprise, Genji laughs--just once, but it is a laugh nonetheless. “Socializing never was your strong suit,” he says.

“I am capable of it.”

“But you do not enjoy it. You never have.” Genji sighs wistfully, looking out at the city. “But I suppose if all I did was meet Father’s business partners, I wouldn’t care for it, either.”

“No, you spent most of your time doing a different kind of socializing.”

If Genji recognizes the barb for what it is, he does not acknowledge it. He tilts his head thoughtfully and instead says, “I suppose so. I was a very different man back then.”

With a pang of guilt, Hanzo replies, “I suppose you were.”

One of the figures in the office fiddles with a computer at the table, and a slideshow projects onto the far wall. Hanzo squints, but cannot make out the fine details.

“It looks like an anatomy scan,” Genji says without prompting. “I’m not sure for what, though. I guess it isn’t too out of line with the business, but . . .”

“But odd, given the hour.” And given the history behind one of the contracts Hanzo has taken.

“It might be nothing, but it is suspicious nonetheless. We will have to look into getting our hands on those notes, if we can.”

Hanzo hums his agreement. Quiet falls between them again. The gentle rumble of traffic reaches them from the streets below, quieted by the late hour but nonetheless always present in the busy city.

Then Genji chuckles unexpectedly. When Hanzo looks at him for explanation, Genji says “I must admit, you were a much different man when we last met as well. All those years I tried to convince you to dye your hair, and then you went and got an undercut.”

Hanzo smiles wryly. “I suppose I was due to do something radical and unnecessary to it.”

“Overdue, even. By about twenty years. I won’t even get started on the piercings.”

Hanzo focuses intently on the window, hoping that he can keep away an embarrassed blush by sheer force of will. “I realize I am probably too old for such things.”

“That is not what I mean at all. It was just a surprise. I almost did not recognize you. I imagine our father is turning in his grave. Although . . .”

The change in Genji’s tone immediately sets Hanzo on edge. “What.”

“You still wear the _gi,"_  Genji says.

Something unidentifiable hurt lances through Hanzo’s gut, stealing what little mirth he had managed to find in their conversation.

Hanzo grits his teeth. “I am accustomed to fighting in them.” He can feel Genji’s judgment radiating from him, and turns his head away.

“It seems . . . out of place, given the rest.”

“I am well aware.”

“Why keep them? Why cling to that tradition when you have let go of so many others?”

Rage flares before Hanzo can stop it. He only restrains himself from shouting because of their location. “What do you want from me?” he snaps. “Do you wish for me to cast away _everything_ we are as though it does not matter? As easily as you did?”

Genji looks at him impassively. “ _We_ are nothing anymore,” he says.

Hanzo sucks in a breath. He looks away.

Nothing.

Of course they are nothing. The Shimada name has not mattered in years--the two of them even less so.

He can still feel Genji’s gaze on him. He forces himself to focus on the distant meeting room. The figures around the table begin to shift, gathering their belongings and getting to their feet. Hanzo reflexively tightens his grip on his bow.

“We should go,” Genji says quietly. “Perhaps we can follow a few of them.” He stands and makes his way toward the back of their rooftop perch, where they can descend without being seen before the employees leave. Hanzo takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and follows.

The silence between them is tense. When they reach the street, they watch together as the five people from the meeting break into two groups--one of two, the other three--and depart in opposite directions. Hanzo and Genji wordlessly agree to split up and follow the groups independently; Hanzo tails after the red-haired woman and another employee, who Genji named as Cowles, as they make their way down the street.

This, at least, is easy. In stealth and on the battlefield, he is in his element, and it is easy to forget petty emotions.

Hanzo is careful to follow from a distance, ducking into the shadow of an alley when the woman casts a glance behind them. He can hear snatches of conversation, but little that is concrete, only a few mentions of unspecific genetic treatments and an allusion to a nebulous third-party interested in their research. There are, in fact, quite careful to use no names or details that could be tracked.

Hanzo does, however, hear Cowles call his companion _Ms. Corbin,_  and note the presence of a firearm hidden discreetly underneath his suit jacket--hardly a requirement for the average scientist or board member. A little thrill of victory cuts through his bitter mood. At least something positive has come of tonight, and now he has a face for a name.

The two finally part to get into separate vehicles at a parking garage at the end of the street, and Hanzo makes his way back to the company building. Genji has already returned from his own venture. They each summarize their own findings in quick, clipped conversation, and start the walk back to the cafe to give Winston their updates before heading home. Genji had not heard much, other than the same references to a third-party group, but he is pleased by the discovery of Corbin’s actual identity.

The rest of their short journey passes in silence, until Genji slows his pace as they round a street corner. The coffee shop sits at the end of the road, dark and empty. Weary from the night’s work and irritable from conversation, Hanzo barely resists the urge to snap at Genji to hurry along.

“I am sorry for earlier,” Genji says.

Hanzo keeps walking.

“You have made a lot of changes,” Genji continues. He does not sound uncertain or reluctant in his apology, which Hanzo was more accustomed to when they were young. “It was unfair of me to attack you just for your clothing even though I have seen the rest.”

Hanzo grunts. “You always felt differently about how we dressed growing up. How we represented ourselves. I am not surprised.”

“No, Hanzo, listen.” Genji grabs him by the shoulder, forcing him to stop walking. Hanzo does not look back at him. “I’m sorry. Truthfully, I am proud to see the changes you have made. I know it was not easy for you.”

He says nothing for a few seconds. Hanzo waits.

“I understand more than you think,” Genji says quietly. “I came to forgive you, with time, and I learned to let go of our childhood, but . . . reminders are still difficult sometimes.”

Throat tight, Hanzo does not respond, but he gives a nod. They continue walking, the quiet between them now less tense, though for Hanzo it feels no different.

\--

 

It is nearly midnight by the time Hanzo and Genji make their way back to the café. Though the night was mostly uneventful, Hanzo’s skin still crawls with a sense of anxious unease, and his head feels as though it is full of electric cotton, light and overactive and useless. He is silent as they reach the little brick building. 

The shop is empty from the outside, the shutters drawn and the lights long since shut off, and it seems much the same when Genji leads them in through the back door. However, a moment after they appear, a light snaps on in the back room, and a chair creaks as its occupant gets to their feet. Hanzo immediately bristles, instinctively reaching for his bow, but Genji is unperturbed.

The jingling of spurs announces McCree’s identity before the man himself appears in the doorway. Hanzo wonders how such a large, loud man has made it as far in this work as he has.

“There you are,” McCree says amicably. “How’d it go out there?”

“Fine. Uneventful, mostly,” Genji replies. “What are you doing here?”

“Volunteered to wait up for you. Winston wanted someone to make sure you got back to debrief, and I probably would’ve been up, anyway.” McCree gestures into the back room, where the computer is already set up and waiting for their debrief. “Glad you’re back in one piece. Really didn’t get anything, though?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Corbin was in the meeting, and now we know a few of the others who are meeting with her as well. They seemed to expect trouble when they left, too, which makes me suspicious.”

McCree makes an unhappy noise. “Well,” he says, “I guess it’s more than we’ve gotten so far. Go let Winston know and we’ll head back together.”

Genji thanks him and makes his way into the back room. Hanzo hesitates a moment. McCree glances him up and down, then says, “Interesting outfit.”

Hanzo scowls. He may stop wearing the gi entirely just to get people to stop commenting on them. “It is traditional,” he says.

McCree holds up his hands. “I ain’t complainin’,” he says.

Hanzo, unable to decide whether the statement is a compliment or not, turns to follow Genji.

The night’s debriefing is short and simple, but it seems to drag on forever for Hanzo. He answers questions as Winston asks and adds details to Genji’s story when appropriate, but his mind is elsewhere. He cannot stop thinking of the conversations they had tonight, the words running through his head over and over. His stomach churns with some unknown anxiety.

He is almost startled when the screen snaps off, signalling the end of their call. “Get some rest, brother,” Genji says beside him, getting to his feet. “I am sure Winston will put that information to good use. I’ll update you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Hanzo says absently, but he does not stand yet. He feels Genji’s hand land on his shoulder, patting once, before he departs. McCree, too, gets up, but Hanzo barely notices the movement.

McCree stops up short. “You ready to go, Shimada? Can’t lock up until you’re outta here.”

“A moment, please.” Hanzo rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger until he sees stars, as though that will somehow push the thoughts from his head. Embarrassing that the cowboy sees him like this, but it will be worse if he gets attacked on the way to the motel because he is too distracted by a mere conversation with his brother.

He drops his hand and looks up. He is surprised to find McCree studying him, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Y’look like you could use a drink,” McCree says.

The statement is so unexpected that it stops Hanzo’s racings thoughts in their tracks. He blinks once, hard. “What?”

“Yeah, you could definitely use a drink. You got that air about ya.” McCree pushes in his chair, the legs squealing against the tile floor. “C’mon. I got some whiskey and I don’t mind sharin’. Ever had a real Irish coffee?”

Bewildered, all Hanzo can think to say is, “No.” Not that he knows the difference between a “real” Irish coffee and a fake one. He likes his alcohol on the sweeter side, but his tastes stop short of mixing it with coffee.

McCree gestures for Hanzo to follow him out into the shop, and Hanzo’s feet carry him after McCree without his input.

“It is midnight,” he says numbly. “Hardly the time for coffee.”

“I’ll use decaf. You weren’t gonna go right to sleep anyway, I can tell.”

That is true enough, and truthfully, the thought of something alcoholic is tempting enough that Hanzo cannot find it within himself to argue any further.

The espresso bar is dark, the shop having closed some five hours ago. McCree flicks on a single light, flooding the prep area in pale yellow light that doesn’t quite reach the lobby. He spends a moment considering, then gathers a few items from around the prep station: a container of heavy cream, a bag of ground coffee, a clean coffee filter, several packets of raw sugar, and two of the smaller serving mugs. Hanzo watches as McCree fills the coffee maker with just enough coffee and water for two, sets it running, and turns his attention to the rest.

“Well,” McCree says wryly, “I guess I can’t call these real Irish coffees, either. Needs brown sugar, and my whiskey’s more Kentucky than Irish, but it’s a damn sight prettier than what they’ll try to sell you at a lot of places.”

“I would not know.”

McCree dumps a couple packets of sugar into each cup and a healthy measure of whiskey from a flask he produces from somewhere on his person. Hanzo leans against the counter, resigned. “Other places just mix some whiskey and coffee and milk or something and call it good,” McCree explains. “But that’s not half as good as the real thing.”

“I thought you did not know much about coffee.”

“I know how to tend bar.” McCree glances up and, catching Hanzo’s look of mild surprise, laughs dryly. “You’d be surprised how useful that is for goin’ undercover. People trust their bartenders. Especially after a couple of shots.”

Hanzo hums. He watches the coffee drip from the machine into the pot below.

For a minute there is only the sound of the coffee pot percolating. When it gurgles and quiets, its job finished, McCree fills each of the cups and gives them a quick stir. “This is the trick,” he says, grabbing a different teaspoon and the container of cream. Despite himself, Hanzo is intrigued, and he watches as McCree carefully pours cream over the back of the spoon into each cup. The cream does not mix into the coffee, but floats on top, forming a clean layer of smooth white. Satisfied, McCree presses a cup into Hanzo’s hands.

Hanzo takes a careful sip. The coffee and whiskey are hot and strong, their sharpness tempered by the sugar and the thick layer of cream, yet still warming and bracing. Hanzo feels a bit of the tension he was not even aware of carrying melt from his shoulders.

McCree is looking at him expectantly. Hanzo swallows the mouthful he’s taken and licks a film of cream off his upper lip. “It is . . . good,” he says slowly, unable to mask his own surprise. “Thank you for this.”

McCree smiles and lifts his own cup toward him in a one-sided toast.

With each of them occupied by their drinks, silence falls between them for a few minutes. Despite his apparent penchant for chatter, McCree seems to understand the value of a quiet moment now; he drinks his coffee and watches the street through the distant windows, his expression contemplative.

He looks tired, too, now that Hanzo has a moment to look at him. There is a weariness to the way he holds himself, fine lines under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights. _Volunteered to wait up for you._

Hanzo almost asks, but manages to trap his curious questions behind his teeth. It is not his business.

“Heard you get into it a bit with Mei the other day,” McCree remarks after a few minutes. His tone is light, as though he just thought of the topic, but Hanzo suspects otherwise.

“I would not say we ‘got into it.’ We had a discussion. She did not care for me after, I imagine.”

“Nah, she’s not one to hold grudges. She was a bit mad at you for a bit, but she simmered down real quick.” McCree takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “Seemed to be okay after that.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Just observing, is all. That’s kind of my job. ‘Specially with folks I don’t know that well.”

Hanzo stares into his cup. “You do not like me. You do not need to act coy.”

McCree glances at him from the corner of his eye. He downs the rest of his coffee, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and turns his attention to the supplies scattered on the counter. “Haven’t decided how I feel about you, actually,” he says.

Hanzo scoffs. “I am no fool.” He cannot even figure out why McCree would have extended this kindness to him--a cup of coffee at twelve-thirty in the morning. Surely he must have better things to do than this.

“Neither am I. Folks think I am, sure, but I ain’t one.”

Hanzo drinks his coffee, grounding himself in the taste. “And yet you are the one who treats me well, despite having no reason to do so.”

“All I’ve done is make you some coffee. Most of the time, you pay me to do it. I’ve had a lot of folks pay me to make them coffee lately, so it ain’t all that special. Besides, always thought that a good way to get to know a man was over a drink.”

McCree sweeps the empty sugar packets into his hand and dumps them into the trash, then moves over to the sink with the coffee pot and his cup. “Angie don’t like ya,” he says as an afterthought, “but I think that’s ‘cause she spent all the time fixin’ your handiwork. Mei and Lena and Lúcio--think they’re in the same boat as me. Still waitin’. But none of them have a mean bone in their bodies. Well, unless you get Mei out in a snowball fight, then she’s downright terrifying.” He laughs to himself at that. “But other than that, they believe in folks. More than I do, if you think I’m bad.”

“I do not understand.” Hanzo feels himself growing frustrated.

“All I’ve done,” McCree says mildly, “is show you a bit of basic human decency. It’s on you to do somethin’ good with it.”

“And you would trust me.”

“Haven’t said I trusted you. I’m still deciding.”

“Then why show me ‘human decency’ at all?”

McCree doesn’t answer immediately. He turns on the faucet and lets it run for a moment. He tests the water with the tips of his flesh fingers. Finding it acceptable, he dips the mug under the water’s flow.

“There was a time, not too long ago,” he says, swishing water around in the mug, “that I mighta put a bullet in your head the moment I learned your name. Won’t lie, the thought’s still tempting in some ways.

“But,” he continues as he dumps the water out of the mug and sets it on the counter upside-down to dry, “I like to think I’m a little better than that nowadays. And if someone had shot me dead when they got me, and I’m not sayin’ I might not have deserved it, then I wouldn’t have gotten a chance to be better.” He moves on to the coffee pot, rinsing it out and setting it beside the cup. He holds out his hand for Hanzo’s cup, and Hanzo gives it to him without a thought.

“I am surprised you did not,” Hanzo says quietly. “I nearly murdered my brother. Your friend. I’m certain I have killed for lesser offenses.”

McCree shrugs one shoulder wearily. He dries his hands on a dishrag and picks up the container of cream and the bag of coffee.

Hanzo wants to ask again what it is in McCree’s past that has caused him to give Hanzo a chance, but he refrains; he’s certain he will be deflected again. Instead, he says, “Even so, you are not required to do anything but allow me to work beside you. Not even that much. Were I in your place, I would not look so kindly upon someone like me.”

“Why are you so determined that everyone hate you?”

“It makes more sense than the alternative.”

McCree sighs, his patience wearing thin. “Look,” he says, “if you’re tryin’ to tell me that me bein’ a good person to you is _foolish,_ well, that’s just bullshit. I’m just tryin’ to be good to a soul that looks like he could use it. If you wanna take my kindness and piss all over it, that’s on you, not me. I’m not gonna feel bad for tryin’ to put more good into the world just because some folks will throw it back at me, and if you asked anyone else here, they’d say the same damn thing.”

He closes the refrigerator door with finality. He looks at Hanzo over the curve of his outstretched bicep. “You can either take it or leave it, Shimada,” he says. “If you want to turn around and hurt someone here, I won’t think twice about putting a bullet in you myself, and I won’t bother myself none about a few nice words and a cup of coffee. Otherwise, it might do you some good to just be grateful.”

He brushes past Hanzo, reaching for his serape and hat hanging on the hook. He tosses the serape about his shoulders, sets the hat on his head, and pulls a battered cardboard box out of his pants pocket.

“Anyway,” he says, “let’s get outta here. Figure we could both use some sleep about now.” He taps a cigarillo out of the box and brings it to his lips, but doesn’t light it. The lighter is in his hands, ready, and he eyes Hanzo expectantly. He does not look angry--rather, he seems to be assessing Hanzo’s response.

Flustered and irritated by McCree’s response, Hanzo’s instinct is to be spiteful and refuse to follow. But there is no other way out of the building. He scowls, which seems to amuse McCree, and follows after him out the back door.

Outside, Hanzo takes a deep breath of the cool Seattle air, then hazards a glance at McCree. McCree doesn’t heed him now as he punches in the code for the back door, setting the lock, then fiddles with his lighter. The flame sparks to life, illuminating McCree’s square features in warm firelight and casting the lines around his eyes and mouth in deep shadow.

_Might do you some good to just be grateful._

“My apologies,” Hanzo says.

McCree glances up. Hanzo turns away, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And thank you for the drink,” he adds, and strides away quickly before he can do anything else unseemly.

He can feel McCree’s gaze between his shoulder blades as he goes. The smell of tobacco smoke lingers for ages.


	3. Chapter 3

McCree’s tired as shit.

He pulls two shots of espresso, badly--they pour in about nine seconds, the liquid too dark and the _crema_ thin to the point of nonexistence--and dumps them into a large cup of coffee. Angela looks on with a vague expression of horror.

“You are going to give yourself a heart attack,” she says, too alarmed to properly scold.

He ignores her, gulping down the scalding drink. The unsweetened coffee and the watery, bitter espresso together are unpleasant but bearable and, more important, full of caffeine. He swallows four mouthfuls before finally reaching for sugar.

“I,” he starts, ripping open three sugar packets, “once saw you shotgun two Red Bulls one after the other, at eleven-thirty PM, because you had to finish a bunch of chart notes and some big application for a research grant by the next morning.”

Angela purses her lips. “That was different.”

McCree stares at her as he dumps the sugar into his cup. Angela finally slouches, defeated.

“Alright, fine, it was worse,” she admits with a sniff. “But that still doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

“Even if it _was_ good for you, I don’t see how you could drink that stuff,” Lúcio comments from his post by the register.

“Yeah, yeah.” McCree waves them off, cradling his cup of lifegiving caffeine. “Try keepin’ my sleep schedule before you lecture me.”

He’s managed to keep a relatively regular sleep schedule in the last couple of weeks, but he had known from the start that it wouldn’t last. The daily routine of a coffee shop, interspersed with assignments, had been somewhat useful in keeping him on track, but insomnia’s more powerful than routine and nightmares even more so. Last night was the worst he’s had in a while, for no reason he could determine, and old patterns suggest that it’s only going to get worse from here on out.

A few phantom images and sensations still linger, even in his waking hours: the rubble of a collapsed building, the wet crimson of blood soaking his clothes, the iron tang of blood in his nose and the shouts of pain and fear in his ears--

McCree shakes his head sharply, scattering the thoughts to the edges of his mind, where they continue to lurk, waiting for another moment of distraction.

So if he needs to drink some caffeine on caffeine just to get through the day, that’s what’s going to happen.

“Well, I could use a coffee, too,” Lúcio declares, pushing back from the register. “Something that won’t kill a guy at ten paces.”

“Yeah? What’s your poison, then?”

Lúcio glances over his shoulder at him, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and McCree has the distinct feeling he’s gotten into something dangerous.

He watches with a certain blend of consternation and amusement as Lúcio moves about the espresso bar. He seems to know exactly what he’s doing, swearing up and down that whatever he’s making is going to be the best thing they have ever tasted, but McCree’s a little skeptical.

“Trust me, man,” Lúcio says, steaming milk with careful precision, “it’s gonna be great.”

“I saw you put coconut syrup in that cup. Coffee shouldn’t require coconut anything.”

“That does seem like a lot of sugar,” Angela adds. McCree thinks about commenting on her favored sugar-laden blended coffees or reminding her again of the energy drinks, and thinks better of it.

“You’ll see.” Without looking away, he reaches out a hand to press the espresso button on the machine. McCree can see him counting, his lips moving silently around Portuguese numbers, until eight seconds have passed and the espresso starts pouring. The shots are perfect, pulled at what McCree counts to be 28 seconds, and Lúcio smiles in triumph.

The shots go in the cup with a bit of the milk. Lúcio stirs the resulting mix and carefully pours the rest of the milk over the top. The foam gets a liberal dusting of nutmeg and cinnamon, and Lúcio proudly presents the concoction to McCree.

“Try this,” he says. “Tropical latte, courtesy of Brazil. Sort of. I wasn’t going to ask Winston to order us shaved coconut for this, but it’s close enough.”

McCree can smell the light, nutty scent of the coconut lifted on the steam, mingling with the warmth of the spices into something tropical and bright. The taste is the same: sweet coconut against the full-bodied espresso, the nutmeg and cinnamon adding a delicate spiciness to the mix. It’s not bad, but it’s certainly too sweet for his tastes.

“That ain’t bad,” he says, handing the cup back to Lúcio, “but I think I prefer a little more bite to my coffee. Make that much sweeter and I’ll start losin’ teeth.”

  
Lúcio scoffs, without malice. “Yeah? Well, what you made was one step away from being tar, so I don’t think you have any room to talk.”

The bell over the door jingles before McCree can retort, and they both look to the door simultaneously. McCree’s not surprised to see Hanzo enter and immediately make his way toward the counter. It’s been a week since he first arrived now, and he seems to have made himself comfortable here, if not anywhere else. Angela’s mouth presses into a thin line as she catches sight of the former assassin and she quietly excuses herself to the back room, but Lúcio is unperturbed.

“Hey!” he exclaims, leaning over the counter with latte in hand. He shoves the cup in Hanzo’s direction, the contents splashing dangerously within. Hanzo’s eyes widen comically, then narrow with such an unwarranted suspicion that McCree has to choke back laughter. “Perfect timing. Try this, man. Settle a score for me.”

Hanzo presses two delicate fingertips to the cup and pushes it out of his face, eying it warily. “What is it, and why?”

“It’s good, is what it is. Mr. I-Hate-Good-Coffee says otherwise.” Lúcio jerks a thumb in McCree’s direction.

McCree affects a deeply offended look, his hand slapped dramatically over his heart. “I said nothin’ of the sort,” he says. “I said it _wasn’t bad_.”

Lúcio ignores him. “C’mon, you’ll like it. What does a cowboy know about coffee, anyway?”

Hanzo seems to consider this for a long moment, caught somewhere between disdain and interest. McCree’s ready for a dismissal, and Lúcio’s smile wavers at the corners as though he is, too.

Then Hanzo plucks the drink out of Lúcio’s hands and takes a delicate sip. He seems as surprised as McCree is, though for a much different reason.

“That is rather good,” he says, and Lúcio beams. Hanzo glances in McCree’s direction. “You would be correct in saying the cowboy has no taste.”

“Just gang up on me, why don’t you all.”

Hanzo hands the cup back to Lúcio. “I don’t suppose you could make another of those for me?” he asks. By some miracle, Lúcio’s smile gets wider.

“Sure thing, man,” he says, bustling off back into the prep area. Hanzo watches him go with an expression McCree might almost call amusement.

“Never took you for a man with a sweet tooth,” he says.

Hanzo shrugs one shoulder. “There are worse vices to have,” he says. McCree suspects he knows from personal experience.

“S’pose so.” He smirks at an old memory, and at Hanzo’s politely inquisitive look, explains, “My old CO, he was this big, angry-lookin’ son of a bitch. Nice enough guy most of the time, but he sure didn’t look it, and I used to see him drinkin’ the sweetest, nastiest blended coffees you can imagine. Whipped cream and all. Funniest damn thing to see him drink a gallon of sugar-milk through a straw while he was still in half his mission gear.”

Hanzo chuckles, a deep, rich sound low in his throat. “I can only imagine,” he says. “He must have made quite the spectacle.”

“Words don’t do ‘im justice.”

Hanzo watches him for a moment, eyes flickering across McCree’s face. His little smile slowly dims. “You seem unwell,” he says.

McCree pauses. “What makes you say that?”

“You look tired.

McCree unfolds the rag he has been using to wipe the counters, hesitating. “Didn’t sleep so great.”

Hanzo tilts his head slightly. “Is that common for you?”

McCree deliberately folds the rags in half once, then again. He can still feel Hanzo’s gaze on him. “Somewhat,” he says neutrally.

Before Hanzo can inquire further--and McCree can tell he wants to--Lúcio comes back with an absurdly large paper cup. He sets it on the counter in front of Hanzo, then immediately ducks down to get into the glass pastry case on the other side. He comes up with the largest brownie on the tray--a center piece, naturally--and slaps it on a plate, then pushes it and the latte in Hanzo’s direction. Hanzo frowns at the offerings.

“I did not--”

“It’s on the house,” Lúcio interrupts. He nudges the goods more insistently. “Don’t even worry about it. You always come in here looking like you need a brownie and now you’re getting one. Coffee too, put that away,” he adds when Hanzo starts to reach for his wallet.

Hanzo opens his mouth to protest, and McCree braces himself for an argument. He sees Hanzo’s hand tighten into a fist then release, a frustrated motion, and he can imagine the prideful archer being offended at the concept of _charity._

But Hanzo’s shoulders slouch in something like resignation, and he offers a faint smile. “Thank you,” he says somewhat stiffly. “That is . . . very kind.”

He takes the plate and the coffee, Lúcio beams, and McCree puts his hands on his hips. “Whaddya know,” he says. “You got some gratefulness in you after all.”

Hanzo’s smile immediately drops. He gives a stiff nod, avoiding eye contact, and turns to leave with gifted coffee and brownie in tow.

McCree watches Hanzo make a beeline for the corner table, the one McCree now thinks of as _Hanzo’s_ despite the many other customers that occupy it during the day. “We givin’ out freebies now?” he asks Lúcio, teasing. “Winston’s gonna get mad if you keep that up. We only got so much to work with.”

“Oh, he won’t miss a brownie. Besides, have you tried one of those things? Not gonna fix all his issues, but it’ll come pretty close.”

McCree snorts, returning his attention to the counters. “Think that might be some wishful thinking there.”

For the first time McCree can recall, Lúcio’s smile wavers. He seems to spend a moment thinking before he says, “You know, I know we’re supposed to be all worried about him being here, and I’m not exactly thrilled by what he did to Genji, but . . .”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “A lot of the people back home,” he says, quieter, “the people Vishkar wanted to get rid of for the crime of being poor, a lot of them just needed a second chance, or better circumstances. Sometimes they did things because they had no other choice. Maybe none of that was so bad as him, but still. Until he gives me a real reason to give him crap, I can’t bring myself to do it.”

McCree lets a beat pass before he says, “And I’m sure it’s got nothin’ to do with how I heard Genji askin’ you the other night to be nice to him because he _trusts you_ , right?”

Lúcio pointedly looks away. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“No? ‘Cause I’m willing to bet it has _everything--_ ”

Lúcio tosses a stir stick at him. McCree blocks with his arm, laughing, and it bounces off his forearm just as a customer reaches the counter to remark upon their childishness.

 

\--

 

“Anyone got a lock on him yet?” McCree asks. He puts a piece of steak in his mouth, pretending to be focused on his meal, though his attention is on the space behind Mei’s shoulder across from him. Getting into the restaurant had taken a little bit of cajoling and overall far more effort than they had expected--McCree’s certain the maitre’d had taken one look at him and decided he was too ragged for their fine establishment--but at least they’re getting fed for the effort.

“Not yet,” Lena replies at his side. She pops a fry into her mouth--her burger having been demolished long ago--and leans her elbow against the nearby windowsill, allowing her to turn to face the rest of the restaurant and the main entrance past McCree’s other side. “I see the rest of the group, but what’s-his-name hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Cowles,” McCree corrects mildly. He chews his steak slowly, savoring the bite as he studies the group of tables near the back of the restaurant. Several higher-ups from the Pacific Sound Biotech company are seated there, alongside a handful of faces that McCree didn’t recognize, with appetizers and glasses of wine. A couple of empty chairs still remain, awaiting guests that have still yet to arrive.

Mei is quiet, looking thoughtful. Her plate of pasta is untouched in front of her. McCree says, “You might as well eat, sweet pea, we’re gonna be here awhile.”

Mei blinks out of her reverie with a little start. “Sorry,” she says with a sheepish smile. “I was just thinking. I’ve never done missions like this before. It’s kind of exciting!”

“No?” McCree’s aware that Mei’s primary job was always as a scientist, but even though he met her a few times in the past, he never quite knew what she did--their fields didn’t quite overlap most days. “What’d you spend your days doin’, then?”

Mei perks up immediately, her dinner already forgotten again. “I was always doing climate research,” she says. “I mean, I had a little bit of combat training just in case, but all I really did was research.”

“Oh! Hana showed me some of your research journals!” Lena exclaims. “Traveling like that sounds so exciting. Obviously I get to fly all over, but we only ever stayed in one spot for a few days at the most. You must have seen some amazing stuff, right?”

Mei regales them for a few minutes with stories about her early Overwatch travels. McCree listens with one ear, but his attention is back on the room. It’s been over half an hour since the company gathered, yet Cowles hasn’t shown up. Nobody else at the table was worth planting a bug on, too low in the company rungs to bother with at this point if earlier surveillance was anything to go by, so if Cowles or someone didn’t show up, there would be no point to today’s excursion.

He cuts another piece off his steak with more force than necessary, scraping the knife against the plate. He knows the value of patience, but days like this remind him too much of those back in Overwatch’s heyday, where rules mattered more than results.

At least the steak’s good.

“Antarctica was the last place they sent me,” he hears Mei say. “And that was okay, I guess. It was kind of cold, and dark, but it was okay since I was there with the team.”

McCree looks up. Mei pokes halfheartedly at a piece of corkscrew pasta with her fork. The scrape of the tines over the plate is deafening in the heavy silence. “At least, before the rest happened,” she says, her voice low and soft with sorrow.

Lena leans over the table, resting her hand over Mei’s. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “They sounded like great people.”

Mei nods once. Lena pats her hand, sits back awkwardly. McCree sets down his fork.

“It ain’t easy, is it,” he says. “When you start losin’ folks.”

“No . . .” Mei takes a deep breath. “I know maybe some people expected it, in Overwatch, but I’m just a scientist. I never thought . . .”

“It’s hard,” Lena agrees softly. “I knew it might happen when I first joined, but that didn’t make it any easier.”

McCree’s stomach starts to churn unexpectedly. The medium-rare cook on his steak suddenly tastes too much like the iron tang of blood. He pushes his plate away. “It don’t get easier,” he says.

Mei shakes her head, and she puts on a brave smile, a little wobbly at the edges but nonetheless sincere. “It’s okay, though,” she says determinedly. “Of course I miss them, but they wouldn’t have wanted me to be sad. They would want me to keep fighting to make the world better. So that’s what I’ll do.”

“That’s all we can do,” McCree says quietly.

A hush falls over the table. McCree itches for a smoke or a drink, something to distract himself from the memories he can feel creeping up at the edges of his awareness. Now is the time for neither.

“Hate to interrupt,” Lena says regretfully, “but we have company.”

McCree glances over, and Lena jerks her chin up, indicating the space behind McCree. “Bogey at nine o’ clock,” she says. McCree discreetly watches the figure entering the restaurant through the wide glass doors at the front.

“He sure kept us waiting,” McCree says dryly. He watches from the corner of his eye as Cowles crosses the room, bypassing the maitre’d entirely, and makes a beeline for the table with the other employees. Cowles is greeted by a low chorus of hellos as he shrugs off his coat and takes a seat.

He gets to his feet. “‘Scuse me, ladies. Think I’d like to get this done with and head out sooner rather than later.”

Over the comms, the others keep talking. _“What were they like?”_ Lena asks. _“Your team from Antarctica. They must have been great.”_

Mei talks for a little bit about her old team, the quirks involved in cohabiting a small space with half a dozen others, the closeness they developed. McCree makes a pass by the table, casting a quick but calculating glance over the table. Cowles is seated at the nearest end, and McCree fingers the tiny surveillance bug in his pocket, deliberating on the best way to reach the target. One of the women seated there eyes his suspiciously, following him as he walks the length of the table; McCree gives a bland, disarming smile in return and ducks into the bathroom located past the far side of the table.

He comes back to the conversation to hear both of the women giggling. _“My first mission was with Reinhardt and Torbjorn,”_ Lena is saying through her giggles. _“You can imagine how that went. Ana’s all, ‘Be careful and don’t draw attention out there!’ but Reinhardt’s like ‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’ when he’s already halfway down the road! Morrison was so mad, but Reyes thought it was hilarious later on.”_

A wistful sigh. _“I wish you could have met them all,”_ Lena says. _“They were a riot. Weren’t they, McCree? Especially Reyes.”_

McCree hesitates. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sure was.” At least, he was before those last few months--when everything started falling apart at the seams, and Reyes has lost most of that good humor to the stress of red tape and scrutinizing governments.

Before Switzerland.

“Was just tellin’ Hanzo yesterday about him,” he says, just to keep conversation moving. “And those nasty coffees he liked to drink after missions. Remember that?”

“ _Hanzo?_ ” Lena repeats incredulously. “ _You were talking to him?”_

McCree doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes stock of the restaurant bathroom, all clean white tile and chrome--and, for some reason, a plush slate-gray armchair next to a vase and a mirror. What the hell did they need an armchair in a bathroom for?

 _Damn rich people don’t know how to spend their money,_ Reyes had said once, some years back, as they scoped out the more influential sector of Rialto. The memory makes his stomach clench.

McCree has a piss since he’s there, washes his hands, and lingers by the bathroom door. McCree can just hear a few voices from the company’s table, muffled and indistinct through the solid oak door. He waits a while, hoping to hear Cowles bow out of the conversation. He can feel himself gritting his teeth.

“He movin’ at all?” he asks, interrupting Lena as she tries to explain to Mei the inherent hilarity of Reyes’ coffee orders.

 _“Oh!”_ Lena exclaims. There is a guilty pause, then, _“No, he’s not going anywhere. Nobody’s really getting up from the table. I’m not sure you’ll get him alone.”_

“Great.”

In the end, McCree discreetly trips up a passing waiter near the table, letting him and the tray of half-finished meals crashing to the floor make a suitable distraction. In the commotion, he manages to slip the tiny bug under the collar of Cowles’ heavy naval peacoat, draped over the back of a chair. He mutters an apology and slips a twenty-dollar bill into the waiter’s apron pocket as he departs.

He and the girls quietly make their way out of the restaurant before the mess completely dies down. Mei and Lena chat merrily as they go, their moods considerably lightened by their success, apparently unaware.

McCree is silent, and he is aware of the worried glances that they cast his way.

 

\--

 

They return to the coffee shop without incident. It is well past closing now, and they let themselves in through the back door, away from the prying eyes of passersby. Hanzo is there, along with Genji, the two of them conversing about something that sounds tentatively pleasant when the team arrives. McCree gives them a short tip of his hat in greeting as he passes them into the back room to debrief, and the two near-identical nods of acknowledgement he gets in return nearly make him do a double-take.

Winston gleefully informs them, grinning widely on the computer screen, that he has already gotten a few interesting tidbits of information and he anticipates learning more about their targets very soon. “You should be able to lay low for a couple of days,” he says. “Just keep running the café and I’ll get back to you when I learn more. Let me know if anything happens, as usual.”

Lena and Mei cheerfully agree. McCree tries to summon some semblance of enthusiasm, but all he can manage is a weary, “Yessir” before the computer screen goes black.

Both Hanzo and Genji are still present, though Hanzo now has opened the tall cello case and is peering over his equipment while Genji says something that McCree can’t quite make out. Lena declares that they need a round of drinks to celebrate their minor success. Mei and Genji agree readily, and Lena’s gaze slides expectantly over to Hanzo. “What about you, Tall-Dark-And-Spooky? Not that you did anything, but still, more the merrier, right?”

Hanzo declines with a shake of his head and an excuse about work to be done. Mei looks at McCree last. “Jesse? Are you coming?”

“Nah,I think I’ve had enough excitement for the day,” McCree replies. He musters up a smile when he sees Mei’s expression fall. “Don’t worry about me none. Go have fun.”

“Okay,” she says. “If you’re sure.”

McCree sees Genji cast a look his way, too, a little suspicious and worried. McCree turns away. He’s self-aware enough to recognize the turn his own mood has taken, and the depths it will likely reach within the next couple of hours. Always happens when he spends too much time thinking about the past, and he’s not going to be the one to ruin the celebration by being a mopey piece of garbage. He can drink himself to sleep on his own time.

The others depart the shop, chattering excitedly, and McCree and Hanzo are left on their own. When McCree looks over to tell Hanzo they both need to leave, he finds Hanzo watching him with a dark, intense gaze.

“. . . What?” McCree finally asks.

Hanzo blinks once, realizing he has been caught, and shrugs, too casually. “Nothing,” he says, looking down at the modified recurve bow in his hands. It’s a lovely weapon, McCree has to admit, obviously crafted by a master and well taken care of in the years since, though certainly not anything he would expect to see nowadays.

McCree clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, they left me to lock up, so . . .” He glances down, seeing that Hanzo not only has his bow, but apparently his full set of gear. McCree’s used to seeing him with a cello case and sometimes a bag, but not usually all of his equipment. “You headed out somewhere?”

“Mm. There is a bounty I intend to collect tonight.”

“Sounds excitin’. Good luck.”

Hanzo looks over his bow with an exaggerated sense of care, a thoughtful expression on his face. He plucks the string, as though to test that it is still tight, and glances at McCree from the corner of his eye.

“Would you like to join me?” he asks.

McCree blinks. “Join you?” he repeats.

“Help me take down this bounty.” Apparently satisfied with his inspection, Hanzo dismantles his bow, releasing the string and folding the body down into something more compact. McCree eyes the flex of muscle in Hanzo’s arms and chest, visible under the thin material of his t-shirt, and he only just manages to rip his gaze away before it gets weird; probably shouldn’t ogle the ex- _yakuza_. “I will give you a cut of the reward, of course.”

McCree plasters on a smirk. “Worried you bit off more than you can chew?”

“Not at all. I am certain I could handle it alone. But you mentioned once that you can learn a lot about someone over a drink. I believe you can learn more on the battlefield.” Hanzo shoulders his quiver and turns to McCree expectantly. “So I am offering you a chance to see what I can do, and for me to see if you really are as much of a ‘gunslinger’ as you make yourself out to be.”

McCree’s instinct is to say no, and the word is on the tip of his tongue when he stops himself. All things, considered, he wouldn’t mind a chance to see the elder Shimada in action, without the overly watchful eyes of the rest of the team. If Genji’s testimony is anything to go by, Hanzo has skill to spare, and McCree would be lying if he said he weren’t curious about how an archer--an archer, of all things, in this day and age--went about his work.

Plus, the thought of doing something productive  is just a hair more appealing than drinking himself into unconsciousness.

“What kinda bounty are we talkin’?” he eventually asks.

“Recovering a stolen ring.”

“Really?”

“Beneath my talents, I know, but it was in the city and it is easy money.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen thousand. I will give you . . . five if you join me.”

McCree whistles, impressed. “That’s a lot for a ring.”

“It is apparently of great sentimental value, and the thief has a particular talent for stealing and fencing goods.” Hanzo huffs a laugh. “A jealous ex-lover of the contractor, I believe.”

“Seems to be the case a good amount of the time.”

“Indeed. So, are you interested?”

McCree pretends to think for a moment, though he has already made up his mind. “Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet. “Yeah, okay. Why not. Let me grab my things.”

“Do you need to go back to the apartment?”

McCree snorts. “You think I let my gun get that far away from me? Nah, it’ll just take a second.”

In the back room is a biometrically-locked steel crate, tucked against the wall under a shelf of coffee beans, where the agents keep their gear during their coffee shifts in case of emergency. It opens instantly to McCree’s thumbprint, revealing Peacekeeper in its holster, three extra belts of ammo, and two of his stun grenades. He briefly laments the lack of his chest plate--that one is still back at the apartment, too bulky to easily carry between locations and useless in an emergency if he is not already wearing it. He’ll just have to not get shot, then. Besides, if Hanzo’s going after the bounty with nothing but a couple layers of cotton between himself and grievous bodily injury, McCree can get by.

Hanzo has finished packing up by the time McCree comes back, his coat on and his case slung over his shoulder, and is waiting by the back door. No traditional attire for this job; McCree wonders what the difference is tonight. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“Sure am.” McCree pats Peacekeeper over the camouflaging fabric of his serape. He sees Hanzo’s look turn skeptical. “Now don’t you worry none, I can take care of myself.”

“We will see.”

McCree locks the door behind them, and they strike out into the Seattle twilight. The rush hour congestion is just now starting to die down, and vehicles and pedestrians alike still clog the streets and sidewalks. McCree takes care to keep his gear well-hidden under the serape.

“So,” he says casually, “give me the rundown. Where are we headed?”

“A nightclub.”

McCree grins, slow and leisurely. “Now, if you wanted to ask me out on a date, you could’ve just asked,” he says.  
Hanzo seems to ignore him, but his eyes roll skyward. “The thief is known to patronize a particular club in another part of town every Friday night,” Hanzo continues. “Furthermore, I believe she will attempt to sell the ring to a contact while there. I am certain we will be able to catch her there, corner her, and retrieve the ring within a couple of hours. From there, I contact my employer with confirmation, leave the ring at a designated drop point, and we will be finished.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” Then McCree frowns in realization. “But you know they’re not gonna let us within a hundred feet of the place packin’ heat.”

“I am aware.” Hanzo crosses his arms as he walks, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “I had planned to simply observe and wait for her to leave, then tail her. But if you are here . . .”

“One of us could poke our heads in, see where she’s at,” McCree offers. “Maybe see if we can’t get her to leave early so we’re not sittin’ around for six hours.”

“How would you propose to do that?”

McCree gives a tip of his hat, a wink, and the kind of award-winning smile that’s charmed him into--and out of--many a situation. “I got my ways,” he says.

Hanzo makes a disgusted noise, and McCree laughs out loud.

\--

 

Their walk takes the better part of twenty minutes, even at a good clip. The rougher, brick-and-mortar buildings soon give way to the clean, overly-maintained look of a wealthier neighborhood that always put McCree more on edge than anything else. They pass through a small residential area made up of larger houses all pressed together side-by-side with mere feet between them. “No idea how anyone could live here,” McCree remarks to Hanzo. “These places cost a million bucks, but they’re so damn close together you could put your ear to the wall and hear your neighbor take a leak.”

“Many parts of Japan were like that, particularly in the cities. Even Hanamura had some buildings like that. It did always strike me as uncomfortable.”

McCree snorts. “Bet you had room to spare in that fancy castle of yours.”

Hanzo, as he seems to do when faced with things he finds mildly annoying, ignores this.

The buildings on the streets change somewhat abruptly as they round the corner at the end of the block, switching from fancy houses to sleek, tight storefronts. The streets widen, leaving more room for the building traffic, both vehicle and pedestrian. As they get further down, they pass more people, dressed in colorful, form-fitting clothing and flashy jewelry. Most of the shops are closed, their displays eerily dark, but there are several other buildings with lights on and doors wide open. Bass-heavy music and boisterous conversation filters through open doors and into the streets.

McCree grins as he finally recognizes where they are. “Didn’t tell me we were headed to Capitol Hill,” he says.

“Is that relevant?” Hanzo asks.

McCree nods toward the front of a bar as they pass. In the corner of a window is a faded rainbow flag, and a glance inside shows a larger one hanging on the back wall. “Back in the day, this was apparently the part of Seattle to go to if you, ah, bat for the other team,” he says. “Not such a big deal anymore in this day and age, but it’s still pretty well-known for it.”

Hanzo looks genuinely surprised by this information. He cranes his neck to look again at the barfront behind them. “I had not realized,” he said. “That seems so unusual now, to have places like this.”

“No shit. Suppose we missed the worst of all that by the time we were born, but before that . . .” Not that there weren’t certain parts of the world that weren’t quite up with the times, McCree thinks wryly, but at least they were few and far between.

After a couple more minutes of walking, Hanzo finally stops them at the end of a street. “There,” he says, pointing to another club some hundred feet down the road. McCree can just read the sign: _Impulse._ Bright pink and blue lights flicker onto the sidewalk through the door, and the pulsing dance music can be heard faintly even at this distance.

“She will be there,” Hanzo continues. “Ideally, we will be able to find her before she makes the trade with her contact. I would be unsurprised if she had company, since it sounds as though she has done this before."

“Gotcha. We got any details about what we’re looking for?”

Hanzo leans up against a nearby storefront and pulls out his phone. A couple of taps and he pulls up a photo of a young, tan-skinned woman. “Analise,” he says. “The would-be thief. As for the ring . . .” A swipe, and the photo is replaced with another of a chunky silver ring, with a square-cut ruby mounted in the center. “This.”

McCree makes a face. “Gaudy, but it don’t look like it’s worth fifteen thousand.”

“It undoubtedly is not, but the owner is intent upon having it safely back. And I will gladly take his money if he is offering it.”

“Now that’s a philosophy I can get behind.”

“And you are certain you can bring her outside once you find her without causing a scene?”

“I spent the better part of fifteen years doing that exact thing, darlin’. I can manage it just fine.”

As McCree is considering the best way to approach, Hanzo holds out his hand expectantly. “Your gun,” Hanzo says when McCree shoots him a confused look. “As you said, they will not allow you through the door with it.”

Leaving his gun in a locked crate is one thing. Handing it off to a near-stranger is another. McCree purses his lips, not moving.

As if he has divined McCree’s thoughts, Hanzo says,“I will return it to you the moment it is safe to do so. And I will be watching the bar from out here. You will not be in danger, and I have no desire to keep your awful, loud weapon.”

That draws a snort of laughter from McCree, and he finally takes Peacekeeper and its holster from the back of his waistband and drops it into Hanzo’s hand. Hanzo spends a moment examining the weapon, appraising, before tucking it away in his bag.

“Alright, cowboy,” he says. “Prove that you are as good as you say.” He gestures out toward the bar, and McCree gives him a jaunty hat-tip before setting off.

The music is much louder inside the bar than it was on the street; McCree can feel the thumping beat in his chest to a rhythm just off that of his own heart, jarring and uncomfortable. He doesn’t let his discomfort show as he shows his--very fake--ID to the bouncer and gets a purple ink stamp on the inside of his wrist. He orders an old-fashioned from the bar to cover himself, takes a seat at a tiny round table against the wall, and scans the room.

 _“Any sign of the target?”_ Hanzo asks in his ear, barely audible over the music.

McCree brings his drink to his lips, takes a sip, and says behind his glass, “Not quite yet. Lotta folks in here. Probably more illegal trading in here going on besides her ring.”

_“I would not doubt it.”_

McCree leans forward on the table, casually glancing over the crowd of faces over the top of his drink. After a few moments, he spots Analise sitting at the bar, leaning over the countertop as she calls a request to the flustered bartender. She hardly looks like a well-established thief--with the bold makeup, a slinky top, and a couple pieces of  jewelry, she looks like any other young woman in the club.

McCree watches her carefully. As Analise laughs and hands her credit chip to the bartender, a glint of silver and red flashes on her middle finger.

“Got her,” McCree says. “Got a visual on the ring, too.”

“ _Are there others?_ _Can you get her to leave the bar?_ ”

McCree watches as Analise takes her fruity drink from the bartender and squeezes herself into an empty booth. She immediately pulls out her cell phone and starts typing. No one comes to join her. “I think so,” he says, and gets to his feet.

Analise barely gives him a glance, at first, when he approaches her table, then immediately looks back at her phone. Not a good sign, but McCree doesn’t let it deter him as he leans an elbow onto the tall table.

“Howdy,” he says, flashing a smile. “Don’t suppose I could buy your next round?”

She glances up at him again, gives him a once-over, and says, “No, thanks.”

Over the comm, Hanzo snorts derisively. Ever a professional, McCree doesn’t let his smile waver despite the blow to his ego.

“You sure?” he says, undeterred. “Hate to see a pretty thing drinkin’ alone.”

“Yeah, I’m actually waiting for someone,” Analise says, typing quickly on her phone. The ring on her finger catches the multicolored lights overhead, flashing as though to taunt McCree for his ineptitude. “I’m good here.”

Pride wounded, McCree gives a stiff nod and a muttered apology, then slinks back to his table. Hanzo makes a noise that sounds a lot like a poorly-muffled laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” McCree mutters into his glass. “Like you would’ve done better.”

“ _On the contrary. You are not the only one who has had to flirt with a mark._ ”

McCree considers the easy banter and subtle smiles Hanzo had turned his way, and wonders what it looks like when Hanzo’s actually _trying_. Begrudgingly, he admits to himself that it’s probably a sight to see. He doesn’t give Hanzo the satisfaction of telling him so.

 

\--

 

His plan foiled, McCree instead turns to simple observation, watching Analise from his table. For a while, there is nothing to report. She finishes her drink and has another, her attention mostly on her phone for the better part of twenty minutes. McCree sips his whiskey slowly, hoping to put off having to order another. Hanzo asks for an update once, halfway through, but otherwise seems content to sit and wait somewhere out of McCree’s line of sight; McCree just about forgets he’s there at all.

Finally, just as McCree’s patience is wearing thin and he’s considering staging a distraction, a man pulls himself away from the crowds on the dance floor and approaches Analise’s table. The music is far too loud to even hope of hearing words, but McCree can see their lips move in conversation, and Analise pulls the ring off of her hand and holds it up for the man’s appraisal. She taps the top of the ruby with a fingertip, saying something incomprehensible, and the man’s smile widens.

“She met her contact,” McCree says into his empty glass. “Looks like they’re movin’ out. Gal in the red shirt and the fella in the black jacket. Gonna see if I can cut ‘em off before they get too far.

“ _Understood_.”

The ring returns to Analise’s finger, and she gets to her feet, the man holding out an arm as if to guide her away. McCree drains the last watery dregs of his whiskey and stands,making a show of checking his phone and readjust his serape around his shoulders. When he glances up, Analise and her contact are staring directly at him.

He smiles blandly. Analise turns sharply to say something to the man, and they immediately turn and make their way, too quickly for coincidence, toward the back of the club.

“Shit,” McCree mutters. “They’re makin’ a run for it out the back.”

“ _What did you do?”_

“Exist, apparently. ‘Scuse me, folks,” he says as he weaves through the crowded club, dodging dancing bodies and ill-placed groups of people. Ahead, he can see the targets reach the back of the club, past the dance floor, and slip out through the back exit.

They are already gone by the time McCree gets outside, though he can hear the echoes of retreating footsteps down the alley. “ _To your right_ ,” Hanzo says _. “Quickly. I will follow from above._ ”

“Wait, I need my--”

_“Look up.”_

McCree does. On the roof of the bar stands Hanzo. He cuts a vivid silhouette against the indigo skyline, lit from below by the sodium-yellow of the street lamps. In one hand, he holds his bow; the other hand flicks out in his direction, tossing a heavy something that McCree recognizes Peacekeeper just as he catches it.

“Thank ya ki--” he starts, but Hanzo has already disappeared. Cursing, McCree breaks into a sprint down the alley. Like hell he’s going to be left behind.

He quickly leaves the vibrant environment of Capitol Hill’s club scene behind, descending into the eerie silence of the city’s hidden depths. It doesn’t take long to catch up, and soon he can hear two sets of footsteps ahead: one pair of dressy men’s shoes and another of kitten heels clicking down the wet asphalt. He’s a little surprised by how quickly the pair is managing to move, given the choice of footwear; clearly this is not their first back-alley chase. The other sounds of Seattle fade, the rumbling of cars and the pulsing of club music becoming a distant echo, until there is nothing left but the sound of footsteps and McCree’s own ragged breaths. Adrenaline sings in his blood and his heart pounds in his ears, and as he ducks around a pile of trash and splashes through a fetid puddle of oily rainwater, he finds himself grinning.

There’s a lot of things to hate about his work. A good chase isn’t one of them.

Despite Hanzo’s promise to be close behind, however, McCree hasn’t seen hide or hair of him since tossing his gun off the roof. The comm’s gone silent, and a glance up and around reveals no sight of Hanzo at all. Still, McCree trusts that the man is somewhere nearby--if not for him, then for the fifteen thousand dollars and the pride riding on the job.

The thought briefly flickers through his mind that Hanzo might just be waiting to collect on his sixty-million bounty, instead. Unlikely, given what he’s observed so far, but theoretically possible.

McCree rounds a corner in the alley, swinging around to the back of what looks like a thrift shop, and comes up on a dead end, cut off by a ratty wooden fence. Analise stands in front of the fend, facing him as though she had been waiting for his arrival. She has a modern plasma pistol in one neatly-manicured hand pointed at him, and a bored expression on her face. McCree gets Peacekeeper up in a flash. She does not so much as blink: a seasoned professional.

Neither of them move for a moment. McCree flicks his gaze around the narrow alley, but aside from a dumpster shoved against the fence and a broken liquor bottle by his feet, there is nothing else.

“Alright, cowboy,” Analise says. She shifts her grip slightly on the gun. It glints in the dim light, a subtle threat. “Who sent you?”

McCree lets a leisurely smirk come across his face. “Who said anyone sent me?”

“Oh, _please_ don’t tell me you decided to chase a woman out of a bar for fun, that’s so much worse.”

“Fair.”

Analise’s gaze flickers toward something over McCree’s shoulder. McCree starts to squeeze Peacekeeper’s trigger, but just before it engages something solid pokes McCree through his serape and between his shoulder blades that he recognizes immediately--he’s more than familiar enough now with the feeling of a gun pressed to his back. Someone steps up behind it, punctuated by the click of sensible men’s dress shoes. McCree bites back a sigh.

“Figured you had to be around here somewhere,” he says dryly.

“We’re going to change this up a bit, I think,” says the man from the bar. “Don’t know much about you, but I’m willing to bet a man chasing bounties has one of his own on his head. Is that right?”

McCree holds up both hands, Peacekeeper raised non-threateningly toward the sky. “Alright now,” he says. “Ain’t no reason for this to get ugly. All I wanted was a little ring, nothin’ else.”

The comm crackles to life in his ear. “ _Hold still,_ ” Hanzo’s voice murmurs. McCree doesn’t let himself react or look around.

“Yeah, not only are you not getting that,” Analise says as she steps forward, her own gun unwavering as it points at McCree’s face, “you’re getting a whole lot more trouble than you wanted. I guess Shane wanted his stupid ring back? How much is he paying you?”

“Probably more than that thing’s worth,” McCree admits mildly.

“Oh, almost certainly. I assume he’s told you absolutely nothing about what he actually wants."

McCree opens his mouth to answer. He is interrupted by the whistle of something slicing through the air, shortly followed by the dull, wet thud of an object embedding itself into flesh and a cry of pain behind him.

McCree immediately snaps his elbow up, catching the flailing man behind him under the chin and again in the ribs. He collapses, gun clattering to the ground beside him, and a glance back reveals the shaft an arrow sticking out of the side of his shoulder.

Analise snarls, face twisted in a grimace as she lashes out with her free hand, and McCree is suddenly being assailed by a triangular blade of vivid red snapping in his direction: a hard-light projection centered from the chunky black bracelet on Analise’s wrist. McCree barely manages to get his metal arm up in time; the blade scrapes against his prosthesis, reverses direction, stabs at him. He gets his feet underneath him and manages to push her back, finding his footing, but there is no way to fire off Peacekeeper safely--he would rather avoid killing her if he can avoid it, and he would definitely like to avoid injuring himself from ricochet if he misses.

Another whistle. An arrow pierces clean through her calf. She screams and topples, clutching the wound with one hand, but the other hand raises her gun. As McCree’s bringing Peacekeeper up to bear, hoping he’ll be just that half of a second faster, another arrow strikes Analise’s gun and sends it flying. Arrow and gun fly to the side, strike the wall of a building, and clatter to the ground.

McCree points Peacekeeper down at Analise. She glowers at him. He grins, and finally dares to look up.

Hanzo stands over the edge of a roof some thirty feet away, lowering his bow. He watches, waiting, and when it becomes evident that McCree is no longer in danger, he shoulders the bow and swings himself up and over the ledge. The building is easily twenty feet high, but Hanzo barely seems to notice as he drops to the ground, lets the momentum carry him forward, and moves to stand beside McCree.

“That’s some fancy shootin’,” McCree remarks.

“There was no need for anyone to die tonight,” Hanzo replies. He stares down at Analise with utter boredom. “Or there will not be. The ring, if you do not mind.” He holds out his hand.

She scowls at him, sucking in wet, pained breaths through her teeth. “The hell is wrong with you two?” she spits. “Some cowboy and an archer?”

“Come on now,” McCree says. “You know you’ve lost. Just hand it over and we’ll get outta your hair. Might even call you an ambulance for your troubles, if you ask nice.”

Analise doesn’t move, and for a moment McCree starts to think they’ll have to take it off her hand themselves. Eventually, though, she takes her hands off her bleeding leg and tugs the ring off her finger, heedless of the blood she smears on the polished silver. She tosses it up none-too-gently. Hanzo’s hand snaps out to catch it before McCree can blink. Instead of pocketing it, though, Hanzo brings it up to eye level for inspection.

“We got the real thing?” McCree asks.

Hanzo hums. He fiddles with the ring for a moment, running his thumb over the mounted ruby in the center. He presses at the base and the jewel pops back on a tiny hinge. When he upends it over his other palm, a tiny chip no larger than his thumbnail falls out into his palm.

“I suspect,” he says mildly, “that this is the real reason our employer wanted this back.”

McCree peers at the chip. “Betcha anything it’s porn,” he says. “Ninety percent of the time, it’s people paying to keep someone from seein’ their junk that shouldn’t.”

“Oh, almost certainly.” Hanzo looks back at Analise. “Of him and not you, I assume?”

She purses her lips. “He was an asshole, anyway,” she says.

“And this guy?” McCree gestures back toward the man still groaning on the ground behind them.

“Just a fence. Knows a guy who had his own beef with Shane, offered a lot of cash.”

“He will be quite disappointed, then,” Hanzo says, and pockets the ring. “Our business is done. I do recommend you seek medical care sooner rather than later. Unless you would like me to take back my arrows now.”

Analise’s face blanches. Hanzo picks up the arrow still lying on the ground nearby, and he leaves Analise and her unnamed assistant behind.

“When do you need to drop off the ring?” McCree asks, trailing leisurely after Hanzo back towards the road.

“Before morning, preferably. Why?”

McCree grins. “I think this calls for a celebratory drink, don’t you?”

At first, Hanzo looks at him like he’s actually suggested a celebratory dive off the roof. Then the disbelief morphs into a amused smile.

“You know,” he says, “I think I do.”

 

\--

 

Returning to one of the clubs is out of the question for a number of reasons, but the Capitol Hill neighborhood boasts a couple of lovely, well-maintained parks. One is conveniently nearby, empty as can be at this time of night and perfectly welcoming to a pair of men looking to indulge in some public drinking.

Near the middle of the park is a fountain in the middle of a shallow wading pool, resembling something like a slightly lopsided, upside-down cone with a flat top, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet high, surrounding by a shallow pool that feeds into a wading pool just below. The water’s off, and the stone making up the fountain’s exterior is rough enough to provide traction; McCree wastes no time in climbing up the narrow bridge between the pools, leaping onto the shallower slope, and hiking to the flat top.

“McCree,” Hanzo says with a touch of exasperation, “I doubt that is there for you to climb on.”

“And?”

Hanzo, ever a surprise tonight, laughs: just once, a sharp bark of laughter that seems to be equal parts amusement and disbelief, but laughter nonetheless. It take him a few long, effortless strides to climb up the side of the fountain.

The top is just wide enough for the two of them to sit comfortably beside each other. McCree whips out his trusty flask of whiskey, and Hanzo produces an honest-to-god _sake_ gourd, and they toast to a job well done.

They drink for a few minutes in silence, looking out together across the quiet, empty park. Like much of Seattle, it’s a striking combination of older structures and newer, modern amenities: an old white stone building behind them with bright holographic signs for the restrooms, clean cement sidewalks cutting across a lawn of green grass maintained by automatic drones, tall trees surrounding the park’s borders next to streets lined with levitating cars. Even the installation they’re sitting on now is a contradiction, older stone with newer LED strips around the edges of the pools, contrasting against a more modern art installation on the other side of the park. He’s not much for cities, but McCree can admit he likes the little pockets like this, where the nature and history bleed through all the modern trappings.

“Pretty handy with that bow,” McCree remarks after a healthy swig off his flask. “Gotta say, I thought it was a bit old-fashioned, but you make it work.”

Hanzo’s smirk is downright indulgent. “Of course I do,” he says.

“And modest, too.”

“I know I am skilled. If I were not, I would not be here. There is no room for mediocrity in our line of work.”

That’s fair, if still a little egotistical. McCree chuckles and takes another drink.

“You have some skill as well,” Hanzo offers after a moment. “I would almost be willing to believe you worked in black ops for all those years.”

“Oh, you’ll learn soon enough.”

“Shame there was nothing for you to shoot. I wanted to see if you were actually of any use with that ridiculous gun of yours.”

McCree scoffs. “Really?” he says, smacking the nearest part of Hanzo he can reach--his bent knee--with the back of his hand. Hanzo looks at his knee as though confused, but doesn’t object. “You wanna lecture me about what’s ridiculous when we _just_ went over the bow thing?”

Apparently, a Hanzo riding high on the thrill of victory and a little bit of alcohol is a lot less uptight than a Hanzo during the rest of the day. They trade a few more lighthearted jabs before eventually falling into a companionable silence, each losing themselves to their own thoughts.

McCree missed this, he realizes: the easy camaraderie of a team. Hanzo is hardly a teammate, let alone a friend, but nonetheless his company fills a space that McCree had forgotten even existed in the last six years.

It’s nice.

After a little while, Hanzo gets out his phone. McCree knows better, but he’s been trained for years to take in his surroundings and he can’t help a habitual glance at the screen, catching sight of a conversation full of Japanese text. He can’t read it, but whatever is written there makes the corner of Hanzo’s mouth turn up with a smile.

“Who’s that?” McCree asks, nodding towards the phone when Hanzo looks at him.

Hanzo hesitates for a fraction of a moment. “My brother.”

“Yeah? You guys on texting terms now, then?”

“Tentatively. It is mostly for mission updates right now.” His smile turns a little rueful. “And, apparently, to inform me that he is tired of watching people all the time.” He taps a button, converting the text and keyboard to English, and he tips the phone for McCree to see the latest message: _I wouldn’t mind doing recon if some of these people would actually DO SOMETHING._

“Didn’t know you had a brother called Unknown,” McCree remarks, eying the contact name.

Hanzo’s brow furrows with confusion. Then recognition dawns, and he blinks. “Oh . . . no,” he says awkwardly, taking back his phone. “I just . . . have not been able to put in his name.”

 _Have not been able_ is different from _have not gotten around to it_. McCree takes another sip of whiskey to buy himself time to think, then says, “Yeah, we’ve been complainin’ about that a bit, the downtime. We did a good amount of surveillance in Blackwatch back in the day. He wasn’t good at that, either.”

“I cannot imagine he was,” Hanzo agrees. “He was never . . .”

Then Hanzo trails off, and McCree senses that they’ve stumbled into territory that may be better left alone. Hanzo taps out a reply on his phone and sends it, but doesn’t put it away, instead staring distantly at the screen.

McCree doesn’t plan to press the point, but after a moment, his tongue perhaps loosened by the alcohol, Hanzo continues, “I do not know what stops me. I know I am speaking with Genji, and I have seen him numerous times now, but . . . when it comes to this, I still hesitate.”

McCree hums sympathetically. “Makes it too real?” he suggests.

“What is more real than speaking to him in the flesh?”

McCree shrugs. “I ain’t sayin’ it makes sense, but shit like this rarely does. Besides, him walkin’ and talkin’ and being a general pain in the ass is one thing, but that’s _him--_ you don’t have to accept it until you do somethin’ about it. Like puttin’ in his name.”

Hanzo’s eyes widen with surprise. “That is . . . surprisingly astute,” he says slowly. “I had not considered that.”

McCree watches him for a moment. Hanzo is still focused on his phone, his lips turned down into a deep frown, his thumb stroking absently over the screen. It’s plain to see that this issue runs deeper than he’s willing to admit--and he needs less of a push in the right direction and more of a swift kick in the ass to get going.

McCree reaches over and plucks the phone from Hanzo’s hands--that he is allowed to do so without getting a broken wrist is a testament to Hanzo’s distraction.

“What are you--”

“Fixing it,” McCree says. He types in Genji’s name, saves it, and drops the phone back into Hanzo’s hands. “There. Crisis done.”

“How dare you--”

“How dare I,” McCree agrees before Hanzo can finish. Hanzo stares at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “Listen, I’m as big a fan of some good ol’ denial as the next guy, but I also know it won’t help shit in the long run. So now it’s fixed and you can focus on actually _talkin’_ to your brother instead.”

Hanzo clenches his teeth, obviously fixing to tear McCree a new one, before all the fight seems to drain out of him at once. He slouches, sighing, his hands falling to his lap around his phone.

“I suppose you are right,” he says. It’s almost as good as a _thank you_ , so McCree accepts that with a nod.

A moment of quiet stretches between them before Hanzo says, “You speak of these things as though you have a lot of experience with them.”

“You could say that.”

“And that is why you continue to help me.”

“If you’re gonna do the whole ‘why are you being nice’ thing again--”

“No,” Hanzo interrupts. “I was not going to say anything of the sort.” He takes a deep drink of his sake, swallows, and smiles ruefully at the flask. “Although I fear I am racking up quite a debt, with how often you help me. Perhaps I should pay you more.”

“Wouldn’t say no to another five hundred, if you’re offerin’.”

“I am not. Merely observing.”

McCree chuckles. “Only payin’ me a third as it is, what’s another few hundred?”

“Perhaps if you had done the research for the bounty or managed to flirt properly, I would consider actually giving you more.”

“Ass.”

Hanzo laughs into his flask. “I have been called much worse.”

McCree studies him for a moment. Hanzo really _is_ handsome, and the artistic lighting from the white LEDs around the fountain certainly don’t hurt in the way they highlight his angular features. Shame he’s such a wreck of a human being.

Not that McCree’s any better, really, but at least he’s made some progress. Or he can pretend that he has.

“So obviously, you could have done this whole thing yourself,” he says slowly, gently swirling the whiskey in his flask. “Which begs the question: what’s the real reason you brought me out here?”

“I never told you I could not do it myself.”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“You truly wish to know?”

“Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty curious as to why a near-stranger asked me to go bounty-huntin’ with him out of the blue.”

Hanzo stares into his drink. Seconds pass, and McCree thinks perhaps Hanzo has decided to ignore him again, until Hanzo finally says, “You seemed like you needed the distraction.”

McCree blinks. “Is that so.”

Hanzo shrugs a shoulder. He does not elaborate further. McCree opens his mouth, ready to demand more, but he’s interrupted by a voice from somewhere behind him.

“Hey, assholes.”

McCree and Hanzo turn back simultaneously toward new voice. They are greeted by the sight of three figures standing on the lawn down below, dressed in dark colors and assorted bits of tactical gear. The ringleader, a young man who barely looks to be drinking age, stares them down with what he must think is intimidating ferocity.

“Can we help you?” McCree asks blandly.

The young man lifts his chin. “You took our bounty,” he says. Another little group of mercenaries, then. Not the first time McCree’s run into another bounty hunter while out on a job, although it’s not common.

Hanzo pauses with his sake gourd raised halfway to his lips. “If I recall, we did the work,” he says mildly. “I believe that would make it ours.”

“We were staking out that place before you ever were. That was our job and you took it.” The young man’s hand rests on the grip of a handgun holstered at his thigh. “So if you’d just kindly give us the ring back, we can move on, yeah?”

McCree exchanges a glance with Hanzo, who seems just as unimpressed by the display as he is. Best not to rile up a guy with a gun, though, so McCree holds up his hands placatingly and says, “Alright, alright. Just give us a sec to get on solid ground, would ya?”

 

\--

 

The fight that ensues is laughably pathetic. The three would-be bounty hunters are all scrawny things that remind McCree a little of himself in his early Blackwatch days, all bark and no bite--other than the knife one of them pulls. A frightened kid with a knife, McCree would argue, is more dangerous than a seasoned man with one, and with the whiskey in his veins he’s not quite fast enough to avoid the unpredictable slice down his forearm. The attack puts the other guy close enough for McCree to drive a knee into his gut and toss him to the grass, and only after does he register the burning pain and the warmth of blood dripping down his wrist and hand.

Hanzo dispatches the other two with ease, leaving them in a pathetic heap on the ground behind the fountain, and looks to McCree. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of the injury, but credit where it’s due, he doesn’t seem too alarmed. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” McCree replies, wiping some of the blood off on his already-ruined shirt. More immediately wells frum the cut, and he wraps part of his shirt around the wound. “One of the little shits just nicked me, is all.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket with his other hand. “Mind firin’ off a text to Angie for me?”

“Who?”

“Angela. Dr. Ziegler if we’re bein’ fancy.” He winces as he clumsily unlocks his phone and tosses it at Hanzo, who catches it easily. “It ain’t that bad, but she’ll be roarin’ mad if I come in tomorrow and she finds out I got hurt and didn’t tell her.”

“Will she not be angry that you got injured in the first place?” Hanzo finds Angela’s contact and fires off a text.

“Oh, I’m sure she will, but I’m takin’ the lesser of two evils here. ‘Sides, I’m a bit tired of doing my own stitches.”

McCree’s phone pings with a response almost instantly. Hanzo frowns at it, sends another text, and passes the phone back. “My room is closer than the café, ” he says. “Dr. Ziegler will meet us there. You can return to your apartments together from there.”

Angela is waiting for them at the motel outside the door, wearing a soft white jacket and a deep frown that somehow deepens further when she sees them. “It is nearly _ten o’ clock_ ,” she says, as if they are unaware. “What have the two have you been doing this late?” Her gaze drops to McCree’s arm, wrapped in the blood-soaked tail of his shirt, and she sighs heavily. “What did you do to yourself now?”

“Hey to you too, doc,” McCree says, smiling in the face of Angela’s disdain. “Just a little scratch. I ain’t dyin’.”

Hanzo swipes his keycard to let them in. Angela narrows her eyes at him as he passes. “And just what were you two doing?”

“A job,” Hanzo replies simply, setting his bow case and quiver by the door.

“Winston did not have any assignments for tonight.”

“It was a private job.”

McCree sits on the edge of the bed, glancing around the room. He didn’t expect much for a cheap motel off downtown Seattle, but the place hardly looks like it’s been lived in for over a week. Other than a second pair of boots by the door and an open duffel beside the bed, it looks like no one’s been here at all.

Angela takes out a small first-aid kit, which McCree knows from experience is full of much more than just the standard first-aid fare. As she pulls out a small biotic emitter and a packet of gauze, she suddenly stops, lifts her nose slightly to the air, and turns an incredulous look at McCree. “Have you two been _drinking?_ ”

McCree can’t help himself; he starts laughing. Somewhere behind him, he hears Hanzo chuckling too, the kind of slightly high-pitched laughter that comes with a bit of alcohol. “Mighta been,” he admits.

“You got drunk and went out bounty-hunting,” Angela concludes flatly.

“Well. Not in that order. I also ain’t _drunk_.” Firmly within the realm of tipsy at this point, sure, but it takes more than what he’s had tonight to get drunk, a fact with which Angela should be well-acquainted by now.

“So you decided to drag one of our members out in the middle night so they could get drunk and hurt,” Angela says, twisting around to level a glare at Hanzo. “When we agreed to allow you to help us, that was not permission to--”

“I did not force him to join me,” Hanzo interrupts coolly, all trace of tipsy amusement gone in an instant. “I made an offer. He accepted, because he is a grown man capable of making decisions.”

“Nonetheless--”

“Angie,” McCree interrupts wearily, because he’s had enough yelling for the night and because Angela’s fingertips are digging into his arm dangerously close to his wound. “C’mon now. He didn’t do nothin’ wrong and you know it.”

Angela shuts her mouth with a click, though she clearly has more she would like to say. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, which is a tactic McCree’s seen her employ many a time in the past when someone’s walked into her medbay after doing something less than intelligent, and looks to Hanzo again.  

“Are you hurt at all?” she asks, and the sincerity of the question seems to startle Hanzo. He blinks a couple of times before he answers.

“No,” he says slowly. “I am fine.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” She returns her attention primly to McCree, flicking on the little biotic emitter and sticking it to his skin before opening a packet of gauze. She cleans the wound with quick efficiency, and the biotic emitter numbs the pain and soon stems the steady trickle of blood. After a quick examination, Angela declares the wound isn’t deep enough for stitches but only just so, and instead closes it with a row of perfectly even surgical strips up its length. When she’s done, she packs up her gear and stands.

“You two should get some rest,” she says. “Honestly, you should have already been home hours ago, not messing around. I hope the money was worth it.”

“I must support myself somehow,” Hanzo says dryly. “If your organization would like to begin paying me a few thousand dollars for each assignment I take, I will gladly stop.”

Angela ignores him as she buttons up her coat. McCree catches Hanzo’s eye behind Angela’s back, smirking, and Hanzo obviously tries and fails to hide a smile of his own. McCree smothers a silly drunken laugh and stands beside Angela.

“Honestly, Jesse,” Angela sighs as they finally depart, leaving Hanzo’s despondent motel behind. She is smiling as she says it. “It seems like I am always patching you up after doing something inadvisable.”

“And you’re best at it there ever was. We’d all be dead ten times over without you.”

Angela glances back over her shoulder, then levels MCree with a surprisingly concerned look. “Are you certain you should be spending so much time with him? I realize he is helping us with our current mission, but you know what he did.”

McCree shrugs as he reaches for a cigarillo and his lighter. “Way I remember it, you didn’t like me much, either,” he says.

“Still. Be careful, Jesse. You know I’m only worried about you and the team.”

McCree holds the cigarillo between his teeth. “You know me, doc,” he says. “Trouble just follows some men.”

“And some men go looking for it.”

He grins. “Little of A, little of B,” he says, and listens to the sizzle of the tobacco as it catches the flame.


	4. Chapter 4

Hanzo wakes the morning after the ring bounty with a vague queasiness and lightheadedness, the kind that don’t quite make for a proper hangover but nonetheless point in the direction of too much alcohol. The hour is much later than he expects according to his phone--nearly nine-thirty--and the sunlight filtering between the cracks in the heavy curtains is unusually bright, disorienting. It takes far too long a moment for him to remember why he feels unwell; with the realization comes a shock of anxiety that has him bolting out of bed in an instant.

His feet hit the floor, pressing into carpet so flattened by age it might as well have been fabric. His hands grip the edges of the mattress, fingers knotting in the scratchy sheets. He takes a deep breath, then another, fighting his body’s urge to devolve into useless panic.

The true source of the reaction does not occur to him for some time; it is only a few minutes later as he sits, head bowed, palms pressed to either side of the bridge of his nose, that a solid thought worms its way through the haze.

_He should not be making friends._

Hanzo had been genuinely _content_ last night. It has been so long since he knew that feeling--so long, in fact, that the experience is now just shy of terrifying when he looks back on it. Most days, after a mission he takes himself back to whatever hovel he is currently occupying or--in more recent months--may treat himself to a solitary dinner in celebration. Never had he simply just . . . wandered away on a whim to go drinking in public with a man he barely knew, forgetting everything else he could be doing in the process. The ease with which he had done so is alarming.

He takes another deep breath, lets it out in a huff, and lifts his head to look at the wall across the room. Another breath takes away the lingering tremble in his gut, leaving behind only the greasy feeling of nausea.

Foolish, allowing himself to become so friendly with the cowboy. With _anyone_ from Overwatch. As though he is permitted such things, or he plans to stay around after their time here is up. Overwatch is a means to an end, the process by which he will collect a complicated bounty, reestablish a tentative connection with his brother, and be on his way within a few weeks--nothing more. He is becoming too sentimental, too hopeful for things that he does not need or deserve.

Things that, if he allows himself to have, he will inevitably ruin.

Hanzo blows out another breath and gets to his feet, taking advantage of the anxious energy to spur himself into his morning routine. By the time he finishes his shower, he is feeling a little more clear-headed. A greasy breakfast sandwich from the gas station across the road chases away the last lingering tendrils of nausea, and after the unsatisfying meal, he has a course of action.

He avoids the coffee shop for the next four days.

The time is instead spent on more worthwhile tasks than filling his body with sugary coffees and stumbling over vague acquaintanceships. Hanzo cleans and tunes all of his gear, adjusting the sight on his bow and replacing the notch. He goes over each of his two dozen prepared arrows in turn, adjusting the heads, replacing fletching, and cleaning blood off the ones that recently saw battle. He reviews new offers from his contacts, dismisses them all as unworthy of his time, and ensures his payments have gone through as intended.

The motel has a gym, though it can hardly be called such; it contains two treadmills and a rack of weights with half of the pairs missing their mates, but when combined with his own calisthenics and _katas_ it is suitable enough. It is easy to lose himself in the simplicity of exertion and the rote patterns of workout routines. After, the burn of his muscles and the drip of sweat down his skin feel enough like accomplishments to satisfy him for a couple hours afterward.

He walks when his room becomes too stifling, the slate-blue walls pressing in and looming over the tiny space. The little commercial space in which his motel is situated is far from the safest or the cleanest, but he scarcely notices. His walks take him far away from there, back into the city proper, back into dizzyingly tall skyscrapers and glittering train tracks that wind overhead and bustling streets. On one day, it does not rain, and the sun is pleasantly warm on his shoulders when it peeks between the buildings. On the other three, the rain falls in a persistent drizzle, and though it has Hanzo pulling his coat close around his neck and wishing for more waterproof shoes, he still walks. The rain clears the streets of those too faint-hearted to venture out in the weather--ironic, he thinks, for citizens who should long be accustomed to it--and though Seattle is far from empty even then, it is quieter, gently muted under a veil of tranquility. Hanzo had never thought much of the rain before, but here he finds himself enjoying it and the strange sense of isolation it brings him.

Isolated and at peace.

He has to retreat indoors eventually, however, and that sense of peacefulness falls away as though it hangs from his coat as he removes it, left beside the door of his dismal motel room.

 

\--

 

After four days, however, Hanzo can no longer avoid the shop or its occupants. The payment on the ring goes through on the second day, padding that particular offshore account nicely, and the issue of McCree’s portion of it becomes more pressing. Personal issues aside, Hanzo is not one to abandon his debts.

He works out before he goes, burning calories to make room for the sugary garbage he will undoubtedly succumb to purchasing. The shower afterward gives him time to mentally prepare for the excursion and remind himself of his actual purpose, and by the time he finishes the walk to the shop, he is well in control.

He glances around his empty motel room as he prepares to leave. He feels a pang of something in his chest that feels a little too much like regret.

The shop is barren when he walks in, not unusual in the early afternoon now that the lunch rush has ended. Hanzo listens as he approaches the counter, picking out the voices he could hear from somewhere behind the counter. He recognizes Lena and Lúcio both, after a moment, and his observations are validated when the former pokes her head around the partition to look at him.

“Hey, there you are!” she exclaims, sliding out from her hiding spot to stand behind the counter.

“Here I am,” Hanzo agrees neutrally, unsure of what to make of the statement. “Were you expecting me?”

“Kind of the opposite, actually,” she laughs. She plants both hands on the edge of the counter and leans forward. “We all got so used to you being in every day that we kind of thought something happened to you.”

“Ah--no. I simply had other matters to attend to.”

“Fair enough. Anything we can get for you?”

Hanzo requests his usual mocha, and Lena passes the cup off to Lúcio. “Is McCree around?” he asks when the exchange is done.

“Nah,” Lena replies. “His shift’s later. Think he’s out on errands right now, but he should be back pretty soon. Did you need him for something?”

Hanzo feels another strange pang, and ignores it. “Just a bit of business to take care of,” he replies. “It is not urgent. If it will not be long, I can wait.”

“Shouldn’t be too long now. He’ll be swapping spots.” Lena leans over the counter conspiratorially. _“Someone_ had himself a close call with a fan this morning, so he needs to lay low for a couple days.”

Lúcio laughs as he watches the espresso pour. “What can I say? Usually I can get by. She was just a little more persistent.”

Hanzo casts a glance around the shop, but the space remains empty of customers. He turns back to Lúcio and inquires, “May I ask you a question?”

Lúcio tilts his head slightly. “Sure man, what’s up?”

“How did you come to be here? With . . . this group. You clearly have an entire career already. Does this not jeopardize that?”

Lúcio laughs a little. “Well, it’s a good cause,” he says. “I looked up to Overwatch when I was a kid. Everyone did. And let’s not pretend I haven’t already dabbled in some freedom-fighting. Remind me to tell you about Vishkar later.”

“Do you not worry about being recognized? It seems you have already come close.”

“Well, I mean, I can’t spend a lot of time working the counter or anything.” Lúcio gestures to the register. “But I’m pretty good at dodging questions from fans nowadays, and if I’m not in my stage gear, most people just think ‘oh, he looks like that musician, that’s cool.’” His grin turns roguish. “Plus, Winston and Athena helped me rig a burner phone for all my social media. Everyone except my manager thinks I’m taking a break back home to work on my next album. Every couple days, I post a picture or something from ‘Brazil’, and that keeps a lot of the suspicion off.”

“And the manager?”

“He helped me break into Vishkar in the first place.”

Hanzo can’t help a chuckle at that. Evidently, Lúcio has always known how to surround himself with the right people. “You seem to have thought this through. Still, it seems strange for a musician of your talent to be spending your time on this.”

A wrinkle forms between Lúcio’s brows. “I mean, I know I’m no black-ops agent, but I know a little bit,” he says. “I didn’t just get into Vishkar on pure luck, you know. And if I’m in a position to help people, I’m gonna do it. Most people don’t have the kind of resources I do, especially not that Overwatch does, even if it’s underground. I won’t just sit around and pretend nothing’s happening. ”

Hanzo grimaces, shame curling in his stomach. “That is . . . admirable enough,” he says. “I apologize if I have overstepped.”

“Not at all.” Any mild irritation Lúcio might have had seems to evaporate in an instant. “I mean, I guess I get it. It is a little unusual.”

Hanzo nods shortly. After a moment, Lúcio says, “You know, Genji’s mentioned a little bit about what went down. That stuff with your family, and your dad.”

Hanzo instinctively tenses and Lúcio, seeing the reaction, puts up his hands as if in defense. “I just mean,” he says, “I get it, kinda. My dad’s got his own legacy. Not really the same as yours, but still, that kind of thing’s hard to live under no matter how you feel about it, right?”

“Is that so.”

Lúcio hums, and Hanzo, left feeling a little off-balance by the younger man’s easy friendliness, lets the conversation drop. He takes his drink when it is finished and assumes his usual seat in the corner, retreating to a safe, defensible space.

An hour passes before Hanzo hears a small commotion from the counter, voices overlapping as they greet one another. He can pick out McCree’s and Genji’s when the initial burst dies down, conversing casually. They step into view from around the partition, trading outerwear for aprons as they talk with the others. While they prepare themselves for their shift, Hanzo dips into his bag and slides out a flat, padded manila envelope, and peeks inside despite knowing the contents are undisturbed: five neat stacks of $100 US bills, tied into bundles of ten for a total of $5000. He gathers his things and stands, intending to deposit McCree’s payment straight into his hands and be on his way.

He rounds the counter, figuring by now he is familiar enough to get away with it. The others say nothing, although he can feel a couple of odd looks thrown his way. McCree does not notice him immediately, his back to Hanzo as he hangs his serape on a hook and retrieves an apron hanging beside it. When he does turn, he looks somehow wearier than when they met last week. The skin under his eyes is dark with sleeplessness, his eyelids heavy, and his mouth is downturned in a distinct frown. Still, when he catches sight of Hanzo, he manages to transform it all into an easygoing smile.

“Howdy,” he says. “Haven’t seen you around in a bit.”

“It has only been a few days. I was busy.” McCree’s gaze drops to the envelope in Hanzo’s hands, and Hanzo tucks it discreetly under his arm.

“Fair enough. Kinda wondered if you just had the mother of all hangovers, honestly.” McCree laughs, though it is a little weak. He busies himself folding his apron in half, tucking the top half behind the lower instead of putting it on properly.

“I can handle my alcohol,” Hanzo says.

“So can I, but that don’t change what it does the morning after.”

Hanzo laughs a little, in spite of himself. McCree turns slightly away to tie his apron around his waist, and Hanzo has the sense he is being politely dismissed. When Hanzo continues to linger, McCree adds, “Need somethin’?”

“Not as such,” Hanzo lies. A voice in the back of his head reminds him he is supposed to conduct his business and leave without being overly friendly. He asks anyway, “Are you well?”

That gives McCree pause. “Yeah,” he says. “ Fine. Just a bit tired.”

“Still? Do you never sleep?”

McCree purses his lips. “Ain’t exactly something I can control,” he says, any pretense of cheer now gone from his face. “Can you help bein’ a nosy shit, or is that out of your control, too?”

Hanzo bristles, and McCree, to his credit, immediately looks regretful. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Look, it’s fine. I just don’t sleep well and it’s been a little worse recently. I never took to livin’ in the city and it’s probably making things worse. Don’t worry yourself over it.”

Hanzo isn’t entirely satisfied by the answer, but he lets it be. He can understand that much, at least--even with his experience in and out of various cities, some even larger than this, he sometimes finds himself on edge. It is not just the busy city, but the inherent paranoia that comes with the lives they lead.

“As you wish,” he eventually says. “My apologies for holding up your work. I will get out of your way.”

McCree nods and ambles off, making his way toward the back of the prep space to wash his hands. Hanzo watches him go, noting the way his shoulders slouch as soon as he is not facing someone, and grits his teeth.

Before he can change his mind, he turns back to the register, where Lena is just wrapping up with another customer. He thrusts his credit chip at her, and when she gives him a confused glare, says, “For one of the pastries.” Then, remembering himself, “Please.”

“Uh.” She pointedly pushes his hand away from her face before delicately taking the card between two fingers, as though expecting it, or Hanzo, to bite. “Sure. Which one?”

Hanzo scans the glass case by the register, uncertain what would be best, before his eyes settle on the glittering, sugar-crusted top of a muffin. “That one.”

“Sure thing.” Lena rings up the purchase, retrieves the muffin, sets it delicately in the center of a plate. She offers it to Hanzo on an outstretched hand, looking no less confused than she did at the start; Hanzo ignores this, takes the plate and a pen from beside the register, and ducks back into the hidden employee space.

McCree is still lingering in the furthest space by the sink, now engrossed in the task of refilling the drip coffee. Quickly, Hanzo scrawl’s McCree’s name across the front of the manila envelope, then sets it and the muffin down in an empty space on the counter. He neatly pins the corner of the envelope under the plate, leaving no doubt that both items are for the same recipient, gives the display a self-satisfied nod, and quickly departs the area.

He does not wait to see what McCree’s reaction will be, but he can hear Lena and Lúcio tittering and Genji ask something unintelligible as he packs his bag. He does not allow himself to think of his actions until he is out of the building and striding quickly down the sidewalk.

When he does, he curses himself for faltering in his conviction, not only allowing the others’ gestures of friendliness but extending one of his own.. However, he thinks of the way McCree might react to the gift when he finds it--surprise, a little smile, maybe interrogating the others to find out who left it if he does not think to check inside the envelope first--and his irritation bleeds away, replaced by a sense of satisfaction that blooms warmly under his ribs.

 

\--

 

Hanzo doesn’t know Winston well and has no plans to, and therefore cannot truly judge on his leadership qualities, but he does not think he will ever fully adjust to the concept of a gorilla heading an international (and illegal) task force. The world is a strange place, and in fairness, he himself is an oddity in a number of ways, but there is still something about the whole thing that makes him wonder how his life got to this point.

He keeps his expression carefully neutral as Winston’s face fills the screen, addressing the group gathered in the shop’s back room. The café is closed and locked, everyone else gathered around the round table. Hanzo is aware, as always, of his status as the odd one out, and he sits stiffly on the edge of his seat and avoids eye contact with all of them.

“Good evening, everyone,” says Winston, adjusting his comically small glasses above his nose. “Another exciting day in the high-stakes world of coffee-making?”

To Hanzo’s left, McCree snorts with wry amusement. “It’s a never-ending thrill ride,” he says.

“Heh, well, I know it’s not _that_ exciting, but it’s probably better than the alternative.”

McCree makes a thoughtful “fair enough” face, and Winston clears his throat as he looks down at a tablet. “Anyway,” he says, “between the surveillance that Agent McCree planted last week, and some information-gathering by Agents Shimada, Zhou, and Tracer in the last few days, we think we’ve managed to put together some of Talon’s movements.”

Hanzo casts a glance around the table. Lena and Mei are both beaming, excited by their roles--less accustomed to this kind of work, he remembers. His own brother and McCree are more subdued, only looking on with interest, and Hanzo is abruptly reminded of their history together.

“I don’t suppose we got them to confess to everything,” says Angela with a weary sigh. “I enjoy Seattle, but it’s certainly challenging to work like this.”

“Ah, unfortunately not,” Winston replies. “But I think we did get a bit of a break. We’ve picked up a message between them and an unknown correspondent outside the company. They’re planning a blind exchange four days from now, we think to exchange either products or information. I’m certain that if we can intercept the drop-off, we’ll find not only who they’re making deals with, but more about what they’re doing in that building that we can’t figure out.”

“Well, damn,” McCree says, leaning back in his seat. “That’s a hell of a lead. And we’re sure about the details?”

“We are. We intercepted Talon’s original message and the correspondent’s confirmation. Apparently, they plan to meet at the . . .” Winston peers down at the tablet, adjusting his glasses. “Pike Place Market? Which is a busy tourist site, if I recall. That seems like a strange place to do a hand-off.”

“Not really,” says McCree. “Haven’t been in there myself, but I’ve seen the photos. That place gets packed during the day with all sorts of folk. Nobody’s gonna look at you twice, let alone notice if you drop off a backpack and someone else picks it up instead.”

“I went there a couple years ago while I was on tour,” Lúcio chips in. “That place is _awesome_ , but yeah, there’s so many people that it’s easy to hide. Nobody even recognized me that day.”

Winston makes an unhappy noise. “Which, of course, means it’s going to be just as difficult for us. Still, this is a good breakthrough. I’m sure we’ll be able to find them in time.”

“Don’t worry, Winston!” Lena exclaims, ever the font of enthusiasm. “We’ve done way worse things than finding a briefcase. We’ll get it taken care of.”

“Of course,” Winston agrees. “I have faith in all of you.” He looks down at his tablet again, tapping at the humorously small screen with his thick fingers, then up again. “What about you, Mr. Shimada?” he asks, and Hanzo notes the difference between _Agent_ and _Mister. "_ Have you been able to uncover any more information about Corbin?”

Hanzo shakes his head. “Unfortunately not,” he replies. “I attempted to reach out to some contacts, but they had little to offer, and she is difficult to observe--I can get no closer to her than you. It seems she has made a point to stay out of the spotlight.”

Winston sighs. “That’s a shame,” he says, “but not really surprising. Alright. We’ll keep on with our surveillance for now. I’ll put together a roster for the interception at Pike Place. As always, your assistance will be welcome if you can give it that day.”

“I will . . . consider it.”

“Fair enough. As for the rest of you, get some rest. You deserve it.”

The team gives their chorus of good-byes. Chairs scrape and clatter over the din of excited conversation as everyone gets to their feet. “I wonder if I could convince Winston to let me go that day,” Genji says thoughtfully, trailing behind as the others hastily depart the room, all eager to get home after a long day. “I would not mind a chance to see the market.”

“I’m sure I’ll be roped in,” McCree sighs. “You and me both. ‘Blackwatch experience’ and whatnot.”

“Well, as long as you make a better tourist than waiter, we should be just fine.”

Hanzo doesn’t understand the reference, but McCree laughs, reaching behind Hanzo to smack Genji on the shoulder. “I still think I did alright,” he says. “Besides, you notice how I haven’t snapped at any of our customers since then? I’ve learned.”

Hanzo has to withhold a scowl as he listens to their banter. He knows little of Blackwatch, but he knows it to be a common link between his brother and McCree that he is directly responsible for--yet something will never understand. There is over ten years’ worth of history, in fact, that he has missed in its entirety.

He does not deserve a place in that history, perhaps not even to know of it, but it still aches nonetheless.

He stands quickly to leave, but as he does, a hand catches him by the shoulder. He tenses, relaxing only marginally when he realizes it is Genji.

“Hanzo,” he says cordially. “I’m glad to see you in one piece. I did not hear from you for a few days. I was starting to worry you were avoiding me.”

Hanzo resists the urge to scowl; must everyone comment on his absence? It is as though they could not conceive of others having their own lives. “I am perfectly fine,” he replies. “I had other business to tend to.”

Despite being unable to see Genji’s face behind the mask, Hanzo gets the distinct impression that he is unimpressed by the answer. “Well,” he says, “on that note, I wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean _why?_ Because we need to eat food, and I don’t know what you have been eating while living in a motel for three weeks but it cannot possibly be good, that’s why.”

Hanzo thinks guiltily of the protein bar he had eaten that morning, the last of a box that had barely gotten him through this past week. “My diet is none of your concern.”

“I was joking, but now I _am_ concerned.” Genji sighs, dropping his hands into the pocket of his oversized hoodie. Hanzo can’t help but note the disparity of a cyborg wearing such casual clothing. “Hanzo, it is dinner. You can actually find some decent Japanese food around here and I thought it might be nice to talk to my own brother about something other than work.”

Hanzo’s instinct is to say no, but when he tries to think of a good reason to do so, he comes up empty. A vague fear of his own younger brother makes for a poor excuse.

“That sounds . . . good,” he answers lamely. “I suppose I could do with something other than coffee and pastries.”

Genji snorts. “God forbid we allow that figure of yours to fall by the wayside,” he says, patting Hanzo’s stomach as he brushes past. “Your vanity may never recover.”

“ _My_ vanity?” Hanzo scoffs. “It used to take you forty-five minutes in the morning to do your eye makeup.”

“And yet, my vanity could never quite stand up to yours. How often do you have to pay someone to maintain that haircut, by the way?”

Sibling bickering is a surprisingly easy role to resume, perhaps something that one never can quite forget, and they keep up a steady stream of banter as they make their way along the crowded Seattle sidewalks. There is a tiny ramen shop nearby that Genji swears by, saying that it’s staffed by actual Japanese chefs and it’s _almost_ as good as home, and Hanzo is intrigued despite his skepticism. Though, frankly, any meal that does not come wrapped in plastic sounds appealing by this point.

His good cheer dissipates, however, when they settle into the little restaurant--truly tiny, Genji had not been exaggerating, the bulk of the interior taken up by the main counter--in the furthest corner. He sees the way Genji casts a glance around, not out of the same habit instilled into them both since they were toddlers, but uncertainty. He hesitates slightly before he reaches up to undo his mask. The mask detaches with a little hiss of air decompressing, and Genji quickly breaks it down into the separate visor and faceplate before tucking them both away in his hoodie.

Hanzo doesn’t realize he’s staring until Genji meets his eye, and then he turns away abruptly, ashamed of his poor manners. Twice now he has seen the rough, textured map of scars that covers Genji’s face--some of them new, some of them Hanzo can recall making with his own blade--but the shock still has not faded. At least in front of Hanzo, Genji wears his mask more often than not.

It is jarring, too, to see his brother’s face again, rather than the expressionless mask he has vaguely come to associate with him.

“It’s alright,” Genji says quietly. “I know I look strange.”

Hanzo grits his teeth. He pretends to be invested in the digital menu hanging behind the bar, though it takes several attempts for him to read any of the words.

“It still bothers you,” he says after a moment. Not a question, but a statement of what he has observed.

Genji lets out a slow breath. “At times,” he admits. “Even in cities such as this, which have worked so hard for omnics and others, I sometimes feel an outcast. And people sometimes ask questions about the scars. But I am at peace with what I am--the judgment of others does not matter, in the end.”

Hanzo is blessedly spared from answering when the host comes by. They order their meals, and Genji throws in a request for a bottle of sake at the end. Hanzo shoots him a questioning look and Genji simply shrugs his shoulders. “I assume neither of us wants to do this entirely sober,” he says.

“A fair assessment.”

Genji folds his arms on top of the counter, leaning his weight atop them. Hanzo fidgets with his bracelet, hooking his finger underneath and running his thumb along the top of the worn metal beads.

“I can’t believe you still have that,” Genji says.

Hanzo pauses in his fidgeting. “I do,” he says unnecessarily. “I did not wear it again until very recently, but I always kept it.”

“How old was I when I gave that to you?”

“Eight, I think.”

Genji hums consideringly. “I thought you had lost it years ago. I stopped seeing it when we were teenagers.”

“Father remarked on it once when I was sixteen. I took it off after that.” Hanzo releases the bracelet entirely and clenches his fists on the counter.

A moment passes in silence. The host brings the bottle and two ceramic sake cups; perhaps sensing the tension between the brothers, she sets them down and scurries away quickly.

After a minute, Genji abruptly sighs sharply and squares his shoulders. He grabs a cup and sets it firmly in front of Hanzo, the ceramic clinking loudly on the polished wood of the counter. “We are not going to talk about the past,” he declares. “I have done enough dwelling on our mistakes to last a lifetime and then some. I only want to talk about the time we have missed, instead.”

Hanzo snorts as he watches Genji pour them each a measure of sake. “There is not much to tell.”

“Then tell me what there is.” Genji trades the bottle for his cup. “And I will tell you what I have done, and we will not discuss the things that brought us here, because it seems like we have talked about nothing else and we can fix nothing by repeatedly coming back to it. For once, I just want to have a normal conversation with my brother.”

He holds out his drink in Hanzo’s direction. It takes him a shamefully long moment to realize he is offering a toast. “Agreed?” Genji prompts.

Hanzo heaves a sigh. “Agreed,” he says, and clinks the cup against Genji’s. He then immediately downs the entirety of its contents and reaches for the bottle. Genji looks at him oddly, but then follows suit, so Hanzo figures he isn’t being judged too harshly.

“On that note,” says Genji as Hanzo pours their second round, “I’ve been meaning to ask: what the _fuck_ are those pants?”

Hanzo refuses to blush, instead setting his jaw and retorting, “I will not let my fashion sense be judged by a man who spent his twenties looking like a carrot.”

With the agreement not to mention the things that still linger between them, it’s surprisingly easy to maintain a conversation without the tension returning, even when skirting topics that ought to cause it. Their second round of sake goes down more slowly as they favor conversing over drinking. Genji talks a little of what brought the team to Seattle in the vaguest terms he can muster and what they have been doing outside of their mission. He talks, too, of his teacher, an omnic named Zenyatta he met a few years ago and who has recently joined their cause; Hanzo’s chest clenches a little as Genji speaks of Zenyatta’s role in his rehabilitation, but Genji refuses to let him wallow, and instead diverts the conversation to the Hanzo’s recent work.

Their food comes, and Hanzo eventually gathers the bravery to ask Genji a couple of questions about his augmentations, which Genji answers in good cheer. (His sense of taste and need for actual food are, naturally, intact, although it turns out that his alcohol tolerance is significantly diminished by the reduced organic body weight, which he laments deeply.) He seems unbothered by the questions, despite his earlier self-consciousness, and eventually Hanzo forgets to feel guilty at all. The ramen far surpasses Hanzo’s expectations, though they can both agree it still doesn’t compare to home, nor to many of the foods the family chef made.

They eat and talk and polish off the sake between the two of them over a couple of hours. By the time they finally step out into the cool Seattle night, not quite tipsy but perhaps not entirely sober either, Hanzo’s chest feels full to bursting and his cheeks hurt from smiling. Genji gives him a bone-rattling slap on the back, entirely unheeding of his metal arm, and laughs loudly when Hanzo protests and shoves him away.

“I’m glad you agreed to this,” Genji says as their laughter dies down, his hand lingering on Hanzo’s shoulder. “It was good to talk to you again.”

A lump starts to form in Hanzo’s throat, alongside a dismissive reminder that they have spoken several times in the last couple of weeks, but Hanzo swallows it down. “It was,” he says.

Genji grins again and squeezes his shoulder before finally turning to leave. It takes Hanzo a moment, but eventually he manages to unstick his feet from the sidewalk and go as well.

When Hanzo returns to his room, he opens his bag, then stops up short. Sitting atop the other items is a manila envelope, slightly crinkled, with McCree’s name in Hanzo’s handwriting across the front.

He frowns at the envelope before picking it up. It feels exactly as heavy as it did before, barely touched except for the wrinkles from his bag. Opening it reveals five neat stacks of $100 bills, which also appear untouched until he removes them and realizes the first stack is missing five bills. Still, $4500 remains in the envelope--nearly the entire payment he had promised McCree.

After a long moment of consideration, Hanzo puts the money back in the envelope, reseals it, and tucks it back into his back. He does not know what would compel McCree to return perfectly good money--whether from sense of nobility or a temporary bout of insanity--but the mystery will be dealt with later. For now, he simply wants to sleep off a good meal.

 

\--

 

Hanzo returns to the cafe early the next morning--too early, he realizes when he sees the neon sign in the window is still cold and dark. It is a little past six, but the city is still gray in the predawn, a hazy mist hanging in the air. Someone must be preparing for the day, though, so Hanzo peers into the darkened building for signs of life. The lights are on in the back, and a shadowy figure moves about behind the bar. The figure soon reveals himself as McCree when he rounds the bar, arms loaded with baskets full of stir sticks and sugar packets and packets of substances pretending to be sugar.

McCree glances on Hanzo’s direction, turns to put down a basket, then looks back suddenly again. His brow knots comically with confusion. Hanzo gives a short, awkward wave.

McCree sets aside his load and comes to unlock the door, but he only opens the door partway. “You lost, partner?” he asks. “Bit early. I’m still settin’ up.”

“Apologies. I woke earlier than usual and thought I might get started on my business. May I come in?”

“I guess, but Genji ain’t here, so you might be waitin’ a bit.”

Hanzo shakes his head. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you.”

McCree’s confused frown deepens. He glances down, catches sight of the envelope tucked under Hanzo’s arm, and smiles wryly. “Alright,” he says, and steps aside to let Hanzo by.

Hanzo makes his way behind the counter while McCree finishes laying out the coffee bar. Once he’s finished, appearing content with the organization, McCree swiftly makes his way back. He laughs when Hanzo thrusts the envelope at him and blocks his way.

“Wondered when you’d find that,” he remarks. 

“It was in my bag, on top of my things. If you wished it to take longer, you sorely need to work on your hiding skills.”

“Not hiding,” McCree corrects, gently pushing Hanzo’s arm aside and walking past to the tall fridge in the back. “Just putting it back. Want a drink? I find myself wanting somethin’ a little fancier than the drip this morning.”

“It is your payment,” Hanzo insists, following behind McCree and shoving the envelope at him again. “I promised you five thousand for your aid. You only took five hundred. Why?”

“Didn’t really need any more than that,” McCree says mildly as he pours milk into two steel pitchers.

“That makes no sense.”

“Makes plenty of sense.” McCree shrugs, caps the milk, and turns toward the espresso machine. “Way I figure, I have a roof over my head and access to three square meals a day that I don’t pay for. You, on the other hand—“

“Am an accomplished assassin from a hideously wealthy crime family,” Hanzo interrupts irritably. “Do not pity me.”

“Ain’t pity. Just logic. And if you don’t like that, consider it me payin’ you back for the muffin. Which was good, by the way, thank you for that.  Needed it that morning.”

“The muffin was three dollars.”

“With interest.”

The high-pitched whir of the bean grinder drowns out any attempt at a retort Hanzo might make. Hanzo waits, crinkling the envelope between his tense fingers, until McCree flips the machine off to transfer the grounds to the espresso basket. “You are remarkably stubborn about not accepting money,” he says.

“There are worse things to be.”  McCree twists the basket into the machine and starts it in a single movement. Hanzo sighs, sensing that this is an argument he will not win, at least not at the moment. 

McCree steams the milk, one pitcher after the other, and pours each into a paper cup and tops it with the remaining foam. The espresso finishes with a slow, indulgent drip into each shot glass, and Hanzo can just catch the rich scent of it from where he stands. McCree takes a shot in each hand and gently but swiftly pours one into each cup. The drink he presents to Hanzo is capped by smooth, flat foam, marked only by a circular stain of coffee in the center.

“Macchiato?” Hanzo asks, recognizing the appearance if not the preparation.

“Mmhm.” McCree dumps the pitchers into the sink to be dealt with later, leaning against the counter with his own drink in hand. “ _Marked,_ according to the gal I met back in Italy. Always thought that sounded kinda funny. Little dramatic. Like you did something to it and now it’s marked forever.”

Hanzo laughs softly. “I suppose it does,” he agrees.

He sips his drink. It’s not as sweet as he usually takes coffee, but not unenjoyable, with the espresso tempered by being  sandwiched between the milk and the foam. He meets McCree’s expectant eye over the top of his cup. “It is good,” he says. “Thank you.”

McCree beams. The sight is unexpectedly pleasant, and Hanzo hides his own smile in his cup. It is a moment before he feels composed enough again to ask, “When were you in Italy?” 

“Oh, eight or so years back?” McCree leans back against the counter, looking skyward as he thinks. “Didn’t get to see much of it. We were undercover at the time. Blackwatch op.” His mouth twists ruefully. “That job went to hell in a handbasket, but Rialto sure was pretty.” 

“Italy is a lovely country,” Hanzo agrees. Another thought occurs to him, and he asks, with no small amount of amusement, “Was that the time you pretended to be a waiter and were fired?”

“Listen, I still maintain that that lady deserved it. She fuckin’ whistled at me! Like I was some kinda dog!” 

“She sounds delightful.”

“Oh yeah, she was real fun. Her and the other five people who pulled something like it while I was there.” McCree huffs into his cup. “I know I was undercover, but I almost didn’t mind gettin’ fired.”

They lapse into another quiet moment. Hanzo drinks his coffee slowly, looking out the front windows as he does. The tall buildings block any view of the sky, but he can see the first golden rays of sunshine creeping between them, cutting through the morning fog and casting the street in a faint glow. It may not compare to the grand sunrises he has seen in a dozen countries over the years, but it’s lovely in its own way: the dawn of a city not yet roused, quiet and unusually peaceful as it prepares to wake.

“How did you end up in Blackwatch?” he asks. McCree turns a surprised look on him, and he elaborates, “Genji has . . . alluded to something that brought you there, much as he was recruited. And you have mentioned before that your past is somewhat complicated.”

McCree purses his lips, staring into his cup. “Think there might be a reason I haven’t volunteered that?”

“You do not have to tell me. But everyone here knows of my past, you more so than the rest, and I do not think it is unreasonable to be curious.”

McCree blows out a heavy breath. “No, you’re right,” he says. “Ain’t like it’s a real secret, either. Everyone else knows that one, too.”

Hanzo listens quietly as McCree explains his history: two and a half years of his childhood with a gang that went by Deadlock, the crimes he committed ranging from petty theft to armed assault to international drug trafficking, the Blackwatch sting that got him caught at the tender age of seventeen. McCree speaks in a clipped, matter-of-fact tone throughout his story, but his expression softens when he talks about a man named Gabriel Reyes.

"Scared the shit out of me when I met him,” he says. “Even after he kept me out of jail and took me on. Took me a while to realize he wouldn’t shoot me for makin’ a mistake. Not that it stopped me from mouthin’ off any time the opportunity presented itself, granted, but he put up with that, too.”

He smiles faintly at his cup. “He was a good man,” he says. “I have no doubt I’d be dead or rotting in prison if it weren’t for him.”

“He sounds important to you.”

“Yeah,” McCree replies, sounding distant. “He was.” 

He then seems to snap out of a reverie, and he blinks a few times and gives a self-conscious laugh. “But I’m ramblin’,” he says hastily. “So yeah. Deadlocks. That’s, uh, how I got here. And now we’re even, as far as dark backstories go.” He drinks deeply from his coffee, and says nothing else.

A dozen more questions spring to Hanzo’s mind—what was Reyes like, what happened when they found Genji, where else did they go, were they ever involved with Shimada dealings before or after Genji arrived—but he decides to keep them to himself. Perhaps there will be a chance to ask on another day.

Instead, he says, “And now you make coffee for middle-aged businessmen and entitled tourists. How the mighty fall.”  

McCree’s laughter bursts out of him so suddenly that he seems startled by it. His coffee sloshes dangerously in its cup as he shakes.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says once he gets his chuckles under control. “First day on, I about burned the shit out of my hand on the steam thing. And have you ever faced down an angry suburban mom after you tell her it ain’t even the season for pumpkin spice?”

“I can only imagine the danger,” Hanzo says flatly. “Truly, your courage knows no bounds.”

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve done it.” McCree playfully smacks Hanzo’s arm, all evidence of his dark mood gone. Hanzo feels oddly pleased at the realization. “I’m sure you wouldn’t last three hours doin’ this shit. You’d scare all the customers away with that glare of yours.”

Hanzo considers that for a moment, imagining maintaining his temper in the face of some of the things he has heard just in the past few days. “Perhaps,” he allows, and McCree laughs again. 

The rest of the morning passes peacefully. McCree eventually pushes himself away to finish up the last few pre-opening tasks. Hanzo, though he has nothing that needs doing here, lingers nonetheless. He sips the cooling remains of his coffee, chats mindlessly about whatever topic comes to mind, watches McCree heft an impressive stack of flat boxes with the morning’s pastry delivery and lets himself briefly glance at the flex of his biceps. When McCree turns his back to load the pastries one by one into the case, Hanzo takes the opportunity to slip the envelope into the folds of McCree’s serape, precarious but hidden for the time being. He is back in his spot and innocently finishing his drink when McCree turns back to him, none the wiser. 

The sun has fully risen and a customer is lingering hopefully by the door when McCree switches on the _open_ sign. Hanzo has wasted nearly an hour on a five-minute errand. 

He finds he doesn’t mind at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a million years late and I have no excuses. See you guys in another two million years when I get the next chapter up.

McCree would say he knows better than to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but that's not strictly true in his line of work. Still, he does know better than to do it to friends, and he keeps catching himself with a start trying to listen to the muted voices in the bedroom.

He shakes his head sharply again. "Jesse, you stupid bastard," he mutters to himself as he returns his attention to the pan of sizzling ground beef in front of him. He prods at it mildly with a spatula, forcing himself to focus on dinner instead of his surroundings for a few minutes. He can't help being concerned and curious; when Genji had come home from a shift at the café, he'd been in a visibly foul mood, barely acknowledging McCree's greeting. "My brother," he grumbled when McCree prodded him about it, and he shut himself in the bedroom with a mumbled comment about talking to his master. It's been half an hour now, and McCree can still hear both Zenyatta's and Genji's voices distantly conversing.

He sighs a little to himself and turns to reach for a half-empty packet of tortillas. He likes Hanzo, all things considered, but he can't imagine what it must be like having him for a brother. Or trying to mend a bridge after the kind of events that happened in their lives. Or, really, anything that those two went or are currently going through. 

The front door opens and Lúcio enters the apartment, fresh off the last shift at the coffee shop. McCree turns back to greet him and is immediately pinned in place by the accusatory yet bewildered look on Lúcio's face.

"Yes?" McCree prompts after a moment.

"Is there a reason," Lúcio says, reaching into the deep pocket of his hoodie, "that I found this on my way home?" He produces a worn and, at this point, very familiar manila envelope that's been folded in half. 

McCree chuckles, abandoning dinner to go take the envelope back. "Might be," he says. "I take it you ran into Hanzo."

"Yeah, he was by earlier in the afternoon . . . Do I even want to know why he's giving you several thousand dollars by hiding it on my person?"

"Probably because I put it in Genji's bag this morning." Lúcio stares. McCree flips through the remaining bills in the envelope. He’s taken one or two every time he’s found it again, and he suspects Hanzo has done the same; they’re down to about $3600 now.  "Well, I wasn't gonna be in the shop today, and I wanted to make sure it got there, so--"

"You know what? I don't wanna know," Lúcio finally interrupts, throwing up his hands. "I don't want to be an accomplice to whatever you're doing."

"That might be for the best." McCree chuckles, pockets two more of the bills, and sets the envelope on the counter. 

Dinner's nearly done when the door to the bedroom finally creaks open. Genji crosses the room to the couch, dropping himself into the corner. He still looks weary, but some of the tension is gone from his shoulders. 

"Hey man," Lúcio asks. "Everything alright?"

"Better," Genji sighs, rubbing his eyes. "A little, at least. Talking with Zenyatta helped, as it always does."

"Somethin' happen?" McCree asks, unable to resist now. 

"Hanzo," Genji admits. "Just another argument."

Lúcio  hums sympathetically. He looks at Genji over his laptop. "You wanna talk about it, or you wanna be distracted from it?"

"The latter. Perhaps I will talk about it later, when I have had more time to think." 

"Fair enough." Lúcio passes him an earbud. "Then help me out. I'm working on a new track and I could use a second set of ears."

McCree watches from the corner of his eye as Genji leans over into Lúcio's space, nearly putting their heads together to share the earbuds. He smiles a little to himself, and turns to retrieve the rest of the dinner fixings from the fridge. 

A little later, after distributing plates with overstuffed burritos and dumping the rest of the dishes into the sink for later, McCree drops himself onto the couch beside the others and arranges his tablet on the table. "Y'all ready?" he asks, and once he receives dual affirmations around mouthfuls of burrito, connects the video call.

It takes a moment for it to connect through the various levels of security, but soon the holovid projects two images: one of Winston, tucked into his tire swing miles away at the Watchpoint, and the group of Lena, Mei, and Angela from the apartment across the street. After the usual chorus of greetings, Winston clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose.

"Is everyone ready for tomorrow?" he asks.

"Reckon so," McCree replies. "Seems like a real straight-forward op, all things considered."

"Mei? Angela?"

"Of course," Angela says, a wistful smile on her face. "I can hardly complain about a mission in a nice market and no shooting, for once."

"In theory," says McCree.

"And Genji, you said Hanzo agreed to help tomorrow, too?"

The corner of Genji’s mouth twitches down, but he nods. "He did. He was reluctant, as usual, but I convinced him that he would be be less likely to be noticed by Talon than I would.”

"Good." Winston pushes his glasses further up his flat nose, peering down at his tablet. "Then we have our team. There's a pretty short window in the mid-afternoon when they're supposed to make the drop, but we'll get there early just in case, and make sure they aren't up to anything else."

"Any idea yet just what it is they're dropping?" McCree asks. 

Winston somehow manages to look bashful. "No," he says. "Not yet. There hasn't been any other correspondence. My best guess right now is a product that they want to show to Talon or another buyer, but I don't know."

"Can't make it too easy on us."

"Of course. In the meantime, the rest of you will be holding down the shop as usual. I'd like somebody else to be monitoring the comms with me. Lúcio, Lena, and Genji, you can alternate on the half-hour at the café."

"Will do, big guy," says Lena with a salute at the camera. 

"You just know we're going to be too busy to handle it with two people the entire time," Lúcio says with a dramatic sigh. "Like, rush lines out the  _ door _ busy."

Lena whines quietly in dismay. Ignoring this, Winston continues, "And Genji, has Hanzo said anything about--"

"He still has not," Genji interrupts flatly. 

"Oh. Okay. Well, I guess that isn't as important right now. You all have your assignments. Get some rest for tomorrow. I have a feeling this is the break we need."

Winston grins, and the call ends. With a theatrical stretch and groan, Lúcio dismisses himself to the bathroom, complaining about smelling like coffee as he goes. McCree puts down the tablet while Genji gathers the dinner dishes. He follows Genji into the kitchen to help with cleaning up, but waits until he hears the water in the bathroom run before he speaks.

"So," McCree says casually, "Need me to kick your brother's ass? Not gonna lie, I'm kinda fond of him now, but I'll still do it."

Genji snorts as he deposits the plates into the sink. "That will not be necessary," he says. "It is no different than I expected, I suppose. I am sure we will have the same argument next week, and the week after, until we finally leave the city."

"That's family for you."

Genji huffs, smiling halfheartedly. "I suppose so." He rinses a smear of sour cream off of one of the plates.

The conversation lapses briefly, and the space is taken p by the sound of the tap. After a moment, McCree dares to ask, "Besides the obvious, how's it going with the two of you? You and Hanzo. Been a little bit now since he showed up now."

Genji's hands slow in thought as he scrubs a plate. "Better," he says eventually. "Technically. That we are speaking at all is an improvement, considering. But it feels like . . . like a game of tug-of-war. Constantly pulling back and forth, not even trying to make progress but simply trying to remain on even ground." He sighs. "It is tiring, some days."

McCree doesn't have a good answer for that. He hums sympathetically and reaches for a dish towel to sweep off the counters. "That's hard," he says.

"It is. But I suppose it is better than the alternative. I thought it was equally likely that he would not contact me at all after we met in Hanamura."

"Based on what I'd heard, I was kinda surprised he did, too," McCree admits. "But he did."

"But he did," Genji echoes with a faint smile. "So we at least have a chance. For everything that has happened, I did miss him. I am glad he is here."

Genji sets aside the plate and turns to regard McCree over his shoulder. His head tips thoughtfully to the side. "You have been spending some time with him," he says. "What do you think?"

McCree chuckles ruefully. "Don't think I know him well enough to give you a real good answer."

"You could give a better answer than the others could."

McCree chews on the inside of his cheek, mulling over his answer. "Prickly," he says slowly, which makes Genji bark a laugh. "Kinda hard to read most of the time, really. But . . . he's clearly got a lot goin' on in his head. And he's not all bad at all. Funny when he wants to be." 

He ends with a shrug, acutely aware of Genji's gaze on him.  "I guess I get the sense that he's tryin', either way."

Genji nods.

"Still, though," McCree adds as an afterthought, "if you ever  _ do _ need me to kick his ass . . ."

"You do not need to kick his ass."

"Well, not  _ now. _  But if it ever comes up."

"Bold promises coming from a man who flirted with my brother the first time they met. And who has  _ continued  _ to flirt with him by, for some weird reason, leaving absurd amounts of money in weird places--"

Sputtering in protest, McCree swats him in the ass with the towel. Genji laughs and flicks water at him in retaliation. By the end of it, the kitchen is nearly more of a mess than when they began. But Genji is genuinely laughing again, all traces of his former ennui replaced by a beaming grin, so McCree figures it's a small price to pay.

 

\--

 

They meet early at the Common Grounds shop late in the morning for one last review with the whole team. Hanzo is there before the others, McCree notes, though for once he is not at his usual corner table. He is instead at another pressed up against the wall nearer the register. McCree glances at the corner table, taken up by a couple of students with forty pounds of textbooks and papers between them; it seems wrong, somehow, not to see Hanzo there.

It's a constant, one of the few McCree gets nowadays. He's grown accustomed to having the surly-looking man in the corner. It won't be that way forever, of course; eventually they'll have to leave this shop behind, and with it the sight of Hanzo playing games and drinking sweet coffees in the corner. McCree hadn't realized he valued that until now.

Hanzo doesn't look up when McCree approaches his table. He's focused on his tablet, one hand propping up his head, the other making small, rapid marks with a stylus. 

"Hey," McCree says. "We're all gettin' ready to meet up. You ready to go?"

Hanzo spares him a glance and a halfhearted shrug. "As much as I can be," he replies absently. "It does not seem like a complicated mission."

"To be fair, I'm sure we both know that it's the simple ones that usually go to shit."

The corner of Hanzo's mouth lifts in an approximation of a smirk, then fades just as quickly. "True enough." He seems tired. McCree thinks about inquiring, then thinks better of it. It's easy enough to guess.

Instead, curious as to what else has Hanzo's attention, McCree leans over just a little. He manages to get a peek of the tablet screen and catches sight of an image of flowers, something that looks like a half-finished drawing, before the screen abruptly flips down. He meets Hanzo's unimpressed face with a smile.

"Must you?" Hanzo asks flatly.

"Old habit. Sorry.” McCree is only a little sorry. “Plus, were you doin’  _ art?  _ Never struck me as the type."

Hanzo purses his lips, and McCree laughs. "C'mon," he urges. "Let me see. I won't make fun."

With visible reluctance, Hanzo flips his tablet back around, letting McCree see the drawing in full. Now that he can get a better look, McCree recognizes the flowers. He glances toward the cash register, next to which is a small vase of stargazer lilies that Mei had put there earlier in the week, and back at Hanzo's drawing. Unfinished though it is, it's a decent representation: thin, sharp lines for the petals contrasted by softer, half-filled colors. 

"That ain't bad," McCree says. The corner of Hanzo's mouth twitches as he tries to not preen under the praise. "Didn't know you drew."

"I have not in many years," Hanzo admits. His eyes go distant, unfocused. "It was something I learned a little of when I was younger, but ultimately, any hobby that did not serve a purpose in the clan was not one I was encouraged to keep. It is only recently I have wanted to return to it."

"That so." He gets a hum in response. "New surprise out of you every day."

Hanzo huffs, and McCree can't tell if he's annoyed or embarrassed or both. "It is merely a hobby like any other," he says. "Do you not have anything else to do in preparation for this afternoon?"

McCree chuckles and straightens. "Alright, alright," he says, patting the back of Hanzo's chair. "I'll let ya be for now."

In apology, he makes his way behind the bar, nudging Lena away from her perch at the espresso machine. There hadn't been a cup on Hanzo's table, and that just wouldn't do. 

Hanzo doesn't immediately look up when McCree deposits the mocha on the edge of the table. It gives McCree just a moment to observe, and he does, watching Hanzo focus on his project with an expression that is almost murderous for its intensity. McCree smiles to himself, unsure why the sight pleases him as it does, and backs away from the table.

Hanzo discovers the drink just before it's time to gather in the back of the shop. He blinks at it a couple of times, clearly trying to deduce where and when it came from. He looks up and directly at McCree across the room, accusatory. McCree shoots him a wink and disappears into the back, where Mei and Angela are already waiting.

Hanzo doesn't mention it when he joins them a few minutes later, but he has the cup held firmly between both hands.

 

\--

 

Once everyone's ready and accounted for, the team employs the use of public transport to get from the shop, just off downtown, to the market a few miles away. The bus is better than McCree expects, much cleaner and more efficient than the ones McCree remembers using in his youth. Still, that doesn’t quite make up for the surprisingly-not-illegal fact that he has to stand for the entire fifteen-minute ride, clinging for dear life to a metal pole while being entirely too aware that he will be the first to die if the bus crashes. By the vaguely ill look on Hanzo’s face, he’s thinking the same. Nobody else seems nearly as concerned.

Pike Place Market, from the outside, is a bustling little nook, tucked between Seattle’s main streets and the docks on the Puget Sound not a quarter-mile behind it. An ancient, enormous neon sign atop announces it as the Public Market Center, complete with an old-fashioned analogue clock. Old cobblestone lines the street in front of the outdoor portion of the market and the preceding intersection, jarring against both the sleek storefronts just preceding the market and a few of those within. Other shops fit the aesthetic well, older wooden buildings with faded, hand-painted signs and worn paper flyers lining their windows. To the right stretches an alley lined on either side with long tables, all displaying a wide variety of goods from independent artists and vendors; to the left, established booths and shops are tucked away wherever they fit; each side is equally patronized. Signs hanging from the ceiling point to stairwells and corridors leading deeper into the market with a mix of old wood signs and sleek neon.

The entrance to the market itself is impossible to see past the dozens and dozens of tourists, an undulating crowd of color and shape. The air is filled with the indistinct, strange background noise of a hundred voices, all chattering and shouting and laughing. 

“Fuck me,” McCree can’t help but groan as he surveys the crowds. “Knew it’d be busy, but not that bad.” 

“The market is internationally famous,” Angela remarks. She, unlike McCree, is smiling as she looks ahead. “Is it any wonder that it is so popular?”

“Just because I expected it doesn’t mean I wanna deal with it.”

There’s a faint crackle of static from their comms.  _ “It’s why we thought they wanted to have this meet-up here, after all,” _ Winston says. _ “It’s still a couple of hours until the hand-off is supposed to happen, but keep an eye out, anyway. Who knows if they’ll wait until then to show up or not." _

“Or if they’ll try to stir up some other trouble,” McCree adds dryly.

_ “Hopefully not. But,"  _ Winston continues, brightening,  _ “either way, it gives you all a little time to yourselves. Take some time to look around while you’re there! Enjoy a little fresh air outside of the shop, for once." _

“I can’t wait!” exclaims Mei, bouncing eagerly on the tips of her toes. “This looks so fun!”

_ “Keep me updated,"   _ Winston says, and his connection switches off with a little beep. 

The inside of the market is no less chaotic than outside. Crowds push in either direction, marching ceaselessly and awkwardly to their destinations. Their way is immediately blocked by a particular group of nearly two dozen people, grouped around what McCree can only identify as a little seafood stand. He doesn’t understand the audience until he watches one of the men behind the counter toss a two-foot salmon across a small gap into another’s waiting newspaper-draped hands, and the crowd erupts with cheers and whoops. Mei gasps aloud, and Mercy murmurs an impressed, “Oh, my!”

“Huh,” McCree says mildly. 

Beside him, Hanzo snorts derisively. “Do they all truly believe that to be an impressive feat?” he mutters, out of earshot of the others.

McCree shrugs helplessly. “I guess. Not everyone can be an international bounty hunter.”

“I have thrown a man farther than they threw that fish.”

McCree barks a laugh, and though he keeps his gaze resolutely ahead, Hanzo is visibly restraining a smile. “Well,” McCree says, “I wouldn’t have minded getting to see  _ that."  _ Hanzo seems confused by that, so he adds, “Just sayin’, I don’t have a hard time believing you could do it, built the way you are.” He flicks his gaze down Hanzo’s body to get the point across.

Hanzo is surprised at first, then exasperated, rolling his eyes as he says, “Keep it up, cowboy, and you might receive a firsthand experience.”

“Don’t make promises you don’t plan to keep.”

Hanzo looks up at him with a little smirk then, not quite the reaction McCree had been expecting. He doesn’t say anything before turning his attention back to the path, but it lights a little spark of  _ something _ in McCree’s chest nonetheless that momentarily makes his breath catch.

Interesting.

McCree’s content to follow along as Mei and Angela lead the way, the two of them chatting animatedly and eagerly taking in the sights, with Hanzo stuck somewhere in the middle.  It's slow-going as they make their way down the first side of the market, examining the tables while keeping a casual eye out for the others. The first few tables are mostly crowded with huge bundles of fresh flowers from local florists, dominated by buckets of roses and tulips whose scent permeate the air in a twenty-foot radius. Others are covered with smaller crafts: unique paintings and drawings, stands filled with handmade jewelry, clayworks laid out on soft velvet, glass jars of homemade preserves.

McCree lingers briefly over a table with a series of tacky oversized belt buckles, all of which he's certain were purchased elsewhere; Hanzo and Angela shoot him the same filthy look, as though daring him to think of buying one, and he saunters away from the table in feigned innocence. Hanzo and Mei both stop at once at a table staffed by a young woman, making McCree nearly trip over them both. 

"The honey's all made at our apiary," the woman explains proudly, gesturing to the stacks of glass jars. "We've been a part of the market for years."

Each stack is labeled with a different kind of plant from which the honey was made. Angela and Mei are both delighted; they sample a couple of varieties and take home three jars apiece. Hanzo passes up the regular honey, but comes away from the table with a packet labelled "honey sticks," filled with thin, multicolored plastic tubes of the stuff. 

"Does that seriously say 'green apple flavored'?" McCree asks in bewilderment as Hanzo opens the packet.

"Among others," Hanzo replies mildly, selecting a bright red plastic tube. He offers the packet to McCree. "Would you like one?"

"God no. Call me old-fashioned, but honey's sweet enough without you addin' stuff to it."

Hanzo shrugs as he tears open the tube with his teeth and purses it between his lips. McCree absolutely does not look at the pout of his lips for an extra second, or listen to the way he sighs just a little in pleasure. 

They finish their first check of the upper levels. There is no sign of either Talon or any Pacific Sound Biotech employees, but it’s early yet, and McCree knows better than to let his guard down. Winston confirms that he has yet to see any movement he can track. For now, however, they are in the clear.

They wind their way down to the lower part of the market. If the market above was a series of anachronisms, the floors below are simply a massive pile of them. It's a little less crowded down here, but no quieter as every sound reverberates off of ancient wooden walls. Shopfronts are crammed together side-by-side along winding paths that couldn't possibly have been planned by any sane person, angling down and up again as though following the natural planes of the earth below. An old bookstore with plenty of real paper books sits next to a shop for omnic parts imports, both sitting across from a magic shop advertising fortune-telling for a few paltry dollars, and the winding aisles leading away promise even more tourist traps and esoterica.

Mei and Angela end up on of the bookstores for a time and neither can be persuaded out of bringing back three books apiece. Nobody argues about stopping into the specialty candy store at the end of the row. McCree isn’t surprised this time when Hanzo, along with Angela, are the first through the door. He’s more surprised, however, when he realizes Hanzo has been staring at a glass case of chocolates and candied fruits for several minutes with frustration. While he pores over the selection of ice creams, McCree watches as Angela stops beside Hanzo, a flat box of candies in her hands. She watches Hanzo for a moment, her lips pressed thin with indecision, then says, “He always liked the caramel ones.”

Hanzo tilts his head slightly, acknowledging he heard her. “Does he.”

“They are always the first ones to disappear from my boxes.” Angela smiles wryly. “Even though I tell him they are not for him.”

Hanzo hums consideringly, then waves down one of the employees. McCree smothers a smile and pays for his huckleberry ice cream.

"Seriously, that sweet tooth of yours," McCree says, unable to resist, when Hanzo rejoins them with two boxes in his hands. Hanzo casts a flat glare at the ice cream in McCree’s hands, and McCree laughs.

Finally, after making their initial sweep of the market and finishing with their own touristing, McCree suggests that they break away and take a look along the docks behind the market. Hanzo readily agrees, and they weave their way out the back of the market and down a couple flights of old concrete steps while Mei and Angela remain in the market proper. The commotion of the market gradually fades as they pass modern bars and restaurants, small places tucked into the infrastructure around them. They cross another street and take a few more stairs down and the path eventually turns them out onto the waterfront at Elliot Bay, where piers jut out into the waters of the Puget Sound with yet more restaurants and tourist attractions.

Down here, the city is quieter; though tourists still mill the length of the pier in clusters, it is nowhere near the chaos of the market above. McCree lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for an hour. 

“I feel much the same,” Hanzo remarks. He closes his eyes for a moment, the tense line of his shoulders slouching. “I am no stranger to busy places, but after a while, it becomes exhausting.”

“Can’t say I disagree with you there.” McCree fishes for his cigarillos and lighter, itching to indulge now that he’s out in the open air. “Couldn’t pay me to live here for real. Gonna be happy when we’re done here and we can go back to our nice, empty base.”

Hanzo hesitates just a fraction of a moment. “Yes,” he says eventually. “I imagine that will be nice.”

Though the pier stretches in either direction, leading to a handful more attractions, they don’t go far; instead, they step out onto a viewpoint, a wooden platform with a couple of old coin-operated viewfinders that look older than the two of them combined. McCree leans up on the railing to look out over the glittering green-blue waters of the Pacific, where they stretch out to meet the cloud-dotted sky at the horizon. Hanzo settles beside him, pursing another honey stick between his lips. It’s even quieter here, where the sea washes against the docks in an endless susurrus and mutes the noise of the city. The smell of brine surrounds them so thoroughly as to make it feel like there is nothing else but the sea.

They still have a mission to do, but it’s the calmest McCree’s felt all day, and he can’t help but indulge in the rare moment of peace. He has his cigarillo, breathes deep the scent of salt, and forgets for a moment the chaos of the last hour.

After a minute or two, McCree blows out a mouthful of smoke and asks, without turning to Hanzo, “So what are you plannin’ to do when you’re done with all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“When we’re done here in Seattle. Sounds like you’re only spendin’ a few weeks here, right? Where are you headed after that?”

Hanzo chews the end of his honey stick. “I do not know.”

“No?”

“Normally, once I finished a job, I would simply move on to the next. But . . .” He casts a glance at their surroundings and the people not too far away. “My brother has other ideas. I am uncertain whether to follow his advice or leave again.”

“Too used to wanderin’,” McCree concludes. He taps a bit of ash over the edge of the viewpoint. “I get that.”

“In some ways, I am tired of always traveling.” Hanzo sighs softly. “In another, I do not know how else I would live.”

A thoughtful moment of quiet passes. Hanzo says, “My brother has asked me to stay and work with your team. A few times now.”

“Yeah?”

“He suggested it when we first met a few months ago. I considered it, but I also . . .” He pauses, taking the honey stick out of his mouth. “I was not in a condition to do much of anything for a while after we spoke.”

“Got blackout drunk for a week straight?”

“Something like that.” He smiles humorlessly. “Since then, I have tried to work on other things, but I am not so certain about this.”

McCree nods. He understands. "That what you guys got into it about last night?" Hanzo turns a surprised look on him, and McCree shrugs. "He mentioned it offhand. Didn't wanna pry at the time."

"So you waited until now instead."

"Can't blame a man for bein' curious when his friends get upset."

Hanzo doesn't answer. “Dunno if you’re lookin’ for my opinion on it,” McCree continues mildly, “but I think you should listen to him.”

“Do you.”

“Well. You’ve got nothin’ else to do right now. You’ve helped us so far, and I’m sure we could use your help more officially. And between you and me, we’ve got a decent record of helpin’ folks get back on track and do some good.”

Hanzo makes a thoughtful noise, but says nothing else. His gaze is locked on the sea ahead, something wistful in his eyes. A gentle breeze picks up, catching at his hair and casting wayward strands across his face. McCree finds it harder than he expects to look away. 

"Do what you want," he says with another shrug. "Can't blame you if you don't feel like shackin' up with us. Just sayin' it's probably better than the alternative."

Hanzo crumples the empty plastic tube in his hand. "Perhaps," he says. The tube goes into his coat pocket to be disposed of later. “I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Of redemption.”

“Ah, well.” McCree huffs, not quite a laugh. “I’m tryin’, at any rate.”

“I would argue that you are succeeding.” 

McCree wishes he were wearing his hat so he could pull it down over his face. As it stands, he settles for ducking his head, a little surprised by the sincerity of the compliment. “Well. Thank you kindly.”

Hanzo looks over at him. Until now, McCree had always thought that Hanzo’s eyes were closer to black than anything, too dark to make out the true color at a glance. Out here, though, he realizes that Hanzo’s eyes are brown: a deep color that brightens to a rich amber in the sunshine overhead.

It’s striking, and between that and the unexpected compliment, McCree feels a bit off-balance.

“McCree?” Hanzo prompts, and McCree realizes that if Hanzo said anything at all, he’s just missed it entirely.

“Sorry,” he says, and this time he does try to reach for the hat he isn’t wearing. He tries to disguise it by grabbing his cigarillo instead, though he’s not sure he’s fooling anyone. “Got a bit lost in thought there.”

“It is fine,” Hanzo says, and he doesn’t follow that up with anything else, so McCree figures he’s in the clear. He takes a drag from his cigarillo and blows the smoke out over the open waters of the Sound, sighing a little at himself. 

Predictable, really. It’s certainly not the first time he’s felt a little something for someone he shouldn’t. Never did fancy anyone who might be called a good idea.

 

\--

 

Eventually, the pairs agree to reconvene at the market half an hour before the scheduled meeting time. With some reluctance, McCree pushes away from the rail, and he and Hanzo make their way back across the street and up the stairs. Once they immerse themselves again in the chaos of the market, that little warmth finally fades, and with some regret, McCree is able to leave those thoughts behind and refocus on their mission. The dropoff is due within the next twenty minutes, somewhere on the main street--he can't afford a distraction.

For that reason, he nearly misses her at first.

He catches just a glimpse of her face between the passing tourists, and stops up short. Hanzo nearly bumps into him, barely catching himself before he does. “What?” he demands as he follows McCree’s gaze, but McCree barely hears him.

" _ McCree,"  _ Hanzo says sharply, seizing him by the arm and snapping him out of his trance. McCree comes back to himself all at once, and he grabs Hanzo and pushes him back into the covered market. Hanzo sputters at him but follows, sensing McCree's urgency.

"What is the matter?" Hanzo hisses as McCree peers around the edge of a market stall. "Why are you--"

"That woman across the street. Red hair."

On the other side of the cobblestone street, perusing a selection of produce at an outdoor display, is Moira. She looks just the same as she did years ago, before McCree left Blackwatch--her red hair slicked back from her angular face, her features stuck in that same permanent expression of contempt as though the pear in her hand has offended her. As McCree watches, she sets the fruit aside and turns her gaze to some point behind her, nearer the entrance to the market.

It takes a moment for Hanzo to find her, but eventually his eyes widen with recognition. "Corbin," he says. "She is here? I did not think she would be involved in the drop--"

"Corbin?" McCree repeats with a wry laugh. "That what she's goin' by? Been under my nose this whole damn time just by changing her name. I'm losin' it."

"You know her?"

"Yeah." McCree finds himself gritting his teeth, and has to force his jaw to relax to speak. "Used to run with her back in the day. Haven't seen her in years." A sudden thought occurs to him, and he turns a glare on Hanzo. "Why the fuck didn't your brother say anything? He knew her nearly as long as I did, he shoulda recognized her on the spot--"

"To my knowledge, he never saw her," Hanzo interrupts coolly. "I was the only one to observe her a few weeks ago, and I only knew her as Meredith Corbin. Who is she?"

McCree clenches his fist at his side, resisting the urge to reach for the gun tucked under his jacket. "Moira O'Deorain," he growls.

"Who is--"

_ "Moira?" _ repeats Angela's bewildered voice in their ears, reminding McCree abruptly of their comms. _ "Surely you don't mean--" _

"The one and only." McCree sneers. "Surprised she's botherin' to come out. Never did like gettin' her hands dirty."

Moira sets aside the fruit and starts to walk away, to the dismay of the vendor. Someone says something else in the comm, but McCree doesn’t understand it through the roar building in his ears. His heart pumps in his chest, too fast. He doesn’t realize he’s walking forward until a hand grabs his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Hanzo hisses. “You cannot approach her--”

McCree grunts and shrugs out of Hanzo’s grip. He only gets another two steps before Hanzo grabs him again, fingertips digging into his bicep.

“You are going to expose us!” Hanzo growls, low but cold. A few passersby look at them askance, but none are interested in interrupting their shopping for a couple of strangers. “What do you plan to do?”

“I’m  _ planning  _ to deliver a bit of overdue justice,” McCree replies, yanking his arm out of Hanzo’s grip. 

“You cannot do that. You will expose us to Talon and you will lose over a month of work--”

“You don’t know what she did!” McCree snaps. It’s only when Hanzo jerks back, wide-eyed, that McCree realizes he yelled. His chest feels tight, and he can hear his own shallow breathing. 

He hurriedly looks over his shoulder. Moira doesn’t appear to have noticed him, despite the outburst; she’s getting further down the road, moving with purpose, flickering in and out of sight amongst the crowds.

“We have a job,” Hanzo reminds him. “I do not know what this woman has done, but we cannot--”

“ _ We got it!"  _ whispers Mei on the comms, her voice filled with barely-suppressed glee. 

" _ The drop?"  _ asks Winston. 

" _ Yes! A man in a suit left a backpack by the tourist kiosk, just like the instructions said. I was able to get it when he left."  _

_ "I don't see anyone else around yet,"  _ Angela adds, " _ but they'll probably be here soon, especially if Moira is here. We should go." _

Winston lets out a joyful whoop that nearly bursts McCree's eardrum, then coughs and clears his throat as he seems to realize. " _ Excellent work _ ," he says. " _ Start making your way out of the market by the route we discussed. Mr. Shimada, Agent McCree, keep an eye out--" _

McCree doesn't wait for the rest as he's seized by a sudden urgency, knowing the job is done. He yanks away from Hanzo and breaks into a run, shoving through the crowds. Behind him, Hanzo shouts, and bystanders yelp and protest at his passing, but he's long past the point of hearing them. 

Ahead, Moira hesitates for the briefest of seconds, her head subtly tilted as though listening to something. McCree slows down just enough to reach for Peacekeeper in the back of his jeans, but before he gets a grip on the handle, Moira's off again. She’s scowling, irritated by whatever she has heard. Cursing, McCree ducks and weaves to follow her. The worried chatter of voices in his ear and the sounds of the bustling marketplace fade into nothing behind the pounding of his heart in his ears. 

Moira rounds a street corner, then the corner of a building, ducking into an alleyway and out of sight. McCree curses and grabs his gun, ignoring someone's startled gasp as he does. He’ll be in and out before he can get in real trouble.

Just as he reaches the alley's opening, a weight slams into him from behind. It nearly topples him, but though he manages to keep his footing, his assailant seizes him by the back of his shirt and shoves him up against the brick wall. 

He wrests himself out of Hanzo's grasp, but it is too late. There is a flicker down the alley, then nothing but a few wisps of dark smoke. Moira is gone.

"No no no, fuck,  _ fuck--" _  McCree breathes. He starts to run into the alley anyway, but he only get a couple of steps before realizing that it will do no good. He whirls on Hanzo instead, furious. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he demands. "I almost had her, she was right there--"

"You nearly ruined a month-long operation," Hanzo hisses. "Both mine and your own. As it stands, if she noticed you pursuing her, we may very well be--"

"If we'd gotten her, it wouldn't matter! Guarantee you, whatever PSB's up to, she's at the heart of it. There wouldn't be anything left if we got her!" 

"And then what?" Hanzo asks with a disdainful sneer. It's such a change from the easygoing smile of twenty minutes ago. McCree would feel guilty if he weren't so angry. "We would have a dead woman, perhaps  _ some  _ evidence of wrongdoing, and little else. Talon would be gone before we even reached their front doors, and our work would be for nothing."

McCree falters, his argument unravelled. Seconds pass. Hanzo's scowl softens a little as he folds his arms. 

"There is something more," he observes. "What did this woman do?"

McCree doesn't answer. The adrenaline begins to fade, though something else is taking its place. Slowly, he starts to hear the worried voices in his comm, all demanding updates. His heart thuds painfully against his sternum, and his chest heaves with an effort that isn't entirely due to exertion. 

" _ \--Hanzo? What is happening? Why isn't McCree answering his comm?"  _ asks Angela, concern heavy in her voice. " _ What has happened with Moira?" _

Hanzo's eyes never leave McCree's. "He is fine," he answers. "Moira is gone. I do not know where."

McCree scowls. "She wouldn't have gotten away if--"

"Hanzo's right, Agent McCree," Winston sighs heavily. "If she's noticed that you--"

"Goddamn it, some things are bigger than that! None of you seem to realize--" McCree cuts himself off with a snarl. "Ang, you never even liked her. You  _ know _ what she was doing."

There is silence for a long moment before Angela responds. _"I know,"_ she says quietly. _"Her research was always unethical, even if I could never prove my own suspicions. But Jesse, now isn't the time. I'm sorry. If she's doing her research with a company as big as that, who knows what they could be doing."_

Hanzo folds his arms over his chest, blocking the entrance to the alley. Still waiting for an explanation. 

McCree turns his head away. Sucks in a deep breath through his nose, in and out. It does nothing, doesn't even take the edge off the nauseating cocktail of fury and despair squeezing everything in his ribs.

"She did somethin' to Gabe," he says through his teeth. "Some bullshit experiment. Never told us what it really was, just kept tellin' us he volunteered and that it didn't matter." He glares at the empty alleyway where Moira once stood, mere feet away from a just death. "He might've died when Geneva went up, but all that did was kill him before she did."

"You believe she harmed your mentor."

"I don't  _ believe _ shit. I know she did."

Hanzo lets out a long breath. He seems to be weighing his words. When he seems to come to a conclusion, he opens his mouth to speak, but McCree suddenly can't bear to listen to anyone else.

"Don't," he spits, shoving past Hanzo. Hanzo barely reacts enough to keep his balance. "I ain't dealin' with you, too."

"Where are you going?"

"Out. Don't worry, I won't  _ blow anything _ for you. I'll be back later. Make sure the others get back with that intel safe."

The voices in his comm are incomprehensible again--not muted under the rush of blood in his ears, but strangely garbled, impossible to process as words. He rips out his earpiece and shoves it in his pocket as he strides away, out of the alley and into the streets. He moves quickly, wary of the attention he attracted earlier.

Hanzo doesn't follow him.


End file.
